


Shattering Glass

by Sophie_skates_reads



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: AU, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Cheating, Complete, Depression, Heavy Angst, M/M, Medical Inaccuracies, Mpreg, Not Beta Read, Preeclampsia, calm down, discussion of divorce, it has a happy ending, otayuri - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-12
Updated: 2020-10-02
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:47:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 62,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24153796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sophie_skates_reads/pseuds/Sophie_skates_reads
Summary: Freshly retired and on top of the world, 28-year-old Yuri Plisetsky walks in on his husband kissing another woman at the final Worlds banquet of his career. Ignoring Otabek's desperate pleads of explanation, and flying home that night, Yuri finally accepts that, as hard as he's tried, and as long as he's worked for it, he's fundamentally unloveable -- destined to be alone.Two weeks later, Yuri discovers that he's pregnant, and, finding himself emotionally incapable of aborting the fetus, he must figure out how to navigate the future with a desperate husband, a child on the way, and that familiar, all-consuming emptiness he'd thought he'd finally left behind.~~~I swear this has a happy ending, it's just kinda *VERY* sad before you get there!~~~Completed
Relationships: Katsuki Yuuri & Yuri Plisetsky, Katsuki Yuuri/Victor Nikiforov, Minor or Background Relationship(s), Otabek Altin & Katsuki Yuuri, Otabek Altin & Potya | Puma Tiger Scorpion, Otabek Altin & Victor Nikiforov, Otabek Altin & Yuri Plisetsky, Otabek Altin/Yuri Plisetsky, Victor Nikiforov & Yuri Plisetsky, Yuri Plisetsky & Potya | Puma Tiger Scorpion
Comments: 247
Kudos: 303
Collections: Yuri on Ice





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! Welcome to another Otayuri mpreg story.  
> Is there something wrong with me? Quite possibly.  
> But for now, relax, kick back, and prepare for the emotionally damaging rollercoaster to come! :)

Yuri wove through the party, a glass of champagne in each hand, searching for his husband. They'd been invited to the World's banquet after placing gold and silver, a normal occurrence on its own but saddened slightly by the announcement of their twin retirement. Though many were upset by the news that their favorite two skaters were leaving the ice, Yuri and Otabek didn't see it that way-- merely excited to embark on the next chapter of their lives together.

Yuri had been invited to join Victor and Yuuri's coaching staff, running a joint ballet and skating school -- similar to Sambo-70 but without the severe, frankly dangerous coaching methods the Tutberidze group employed -- and Otabek had finally accepted a DJ position with a record label -- something he'd been hounded about for months before at last agreeing to in the absence of competitive skating.

Needless to say, the pair were both happy with their decisions, even if the rest of the world was upset, and they made sure to stress the fact that they'd return to all the big competitions -- hell, they'd already had invitations extended to them to be guest speakers at next season's Rostelecom Cup.

As Yuri made his way through the crowd, dodging people and trying valiantly to avoid spilling any champagne onto himself from the jostling skaters around him, he searched it with his eyes. He and Otabek had lost each other earlier in the evening, Yuri vowing to grab some drinks and being unable to find his partner after he got them. Close to ten minutes later, he was still looking and seriously wondering how big could this place possibly be?

The 2029 World Championships had been held in Toronto, Canada and JJ had _generously_ offered to host the reception at his family home. Jesus Christ, what a show-off.

The house, if it could be called that, could easily fit three of Victor and Yuuri's house within it and the couple's dwellings were far from small. With a young daughter and infant son, the pair had long ago left Victor's (disproportionately large, granted) apartment and bought a nice, three-story home in an upscale neighborhood not far from the rink -- nor Yuri's own house, for that matter.

He and Otabek had been married for four years and had lived together for eight, moving in together when Yuri had turned twenty and Lilia had _finally_ agreed to him living with his boyfriend. No matter that he was legally above even the US's age of consent and Lilia herself had admitted that Otabek was "a very kind, dependable boy", it had taken two years of begging for her to cave and let Yuri, to his delight, move out. Secretly, he thought she'd just wanted to keep him around for longer -- most likely seeing him as a son of some sort, and he'd be lying if he said he didn't think of her as the mother he'd never had.

Even now, Yuri still kept in close contact with the woman, working with her and Yakov even past their retirement last year to finish out his final season as a competitive skater. Lilia had even set Yuri up with some of her contacts at ballet schools around the country, telling him to think about starting as a teacher for some beginner classes and maybe even trying to enroll in some of the more advanced ones himself. Despite the fact that he was 28 and a (newly) retired skater and his window of opportunity to become a professional ballerina had closed, Lilia had still (grudgingly) told him that she thought he was an excellent dancer and she would be very disappointed if he gave it up.

Yuri'd relented, after some coercion, and agreed to take a few adult ballet classes just to get her off of his back -- not knowing of course that she was good friends with the instructor and that she'd end up teaching half of the lessons herself. 

So much for her retirement.

Now, though, Yuri was dead-set on finding his husband. Crowd be damned, he _would_ get him this champagne without spilling it on himself!

Finally, as he entered a segment of the house that wasn't so crowded, he could walk normally again without trying to compress his already lithe frame to squeeze through throngs of party-goers, and caught a glimpse of a dark undercut from a room a bit ahead of him.

As he approached, he verified that it was indeed Otabek and not JJ or some other asshole with that same, popular haircut, and walked into the room; Otabek's back to him. It was only when he was inside the door, however, that he noticed the other occupant of the space.

A woman -- tall, leggy, and brunette with a long lilac dress swirling around her slim waist, stood in front of Otabek, her arms snaked around his neck, eyes shut.

Kissing him, Yuri realized belatedly.

Yuri couldn't move for a moment, just standing there and staring, his eyes raking over the intertwined figures before him: his husband, and a woman he'd never seen in his life.

He must have made some kind of sound because suddenly Otabek pulled back from the woman's embrace and turned, eyes growing wide as he saw Yuri standing in the doorway.

"Yuri, I--" Yuri didn't hear him, taking a step back as Otabek moved forward. They stood there for a moment, Otabek trying and failing to explain, his words falling on deaf ears, before Yuri turned, leaving his stammering husband in his wake.

Yuri rushed through the party, the noise and light blurring in his mind as he passed people by, dodging the questions and confused looks thrown his way as he flew through the space, aware by some sixth sense that his husband was trying to catch up with him, but found himself, fortunately for Yuri, body blocked by several over-eager reporters.

When, at last, Yuri stopped, it was in a courtyard, the dappled moonlight filtering down through the trees and illuminating Yuri's pale self, giving him an ethereal glow in the bright moonlit night. It was cool, a soft breeze fluttering Yuri's long hair as he sat down on a bench beneath a Wisteria tree, letting the blonde tresses play against his face, the glasses of champagne long abandoned somewhere in the house.

He sat there, numbly, for who knew how long, staring at the silvery lilac of the flower petals and thinking only of how similar the shade was to the woman's dress.

By some miracle, Otabek didn't find Yuri as he sat there-- though Victor and Yuuri did. 

Long retired and invited to the event at the courtesy of the Leroys, they wandered into the garden, holding hands and evidently sharing a moment. At the sight of Yuri, however, seated alone on the bench,  
they separated, if only slightly, and came over to him.

"Where's Otabek?" Victor asked, still holding his husband's hand, "Why aren't you two together?"

"Inside," Yuri said eventually, and it came out completely composed, as did Yuri's movements as he stood from the bench. "We got separated earlier," 

Yuuri nodded, "He was looking for you, I think-- didn't say why though."

Yuri nodded, his face blank, and moved away from the couple.

"Wait, Yurio--" Victor called toward his retreating back, taking notice of his uncharacteristic, subdued calm, "Is everything alright?" 

Yuri stilled. "Yes," He said simply, emotionless. "Everything's fine, I just decided to go back a little early, that's all," 

The couple nodded, "We'll see you back at the hotel before the flight home tomorrow then,” Yuuri said before Yuri shook his head.

"I'm actually leaving tonight," He said, face and tone still blank, "Otabek'll leave with you guys in the morning."

"Oh," Yuuri replied, his brows creased, "Are you sure everything's alright, Yurio?"

"Fine." Yuri said blithely before turning and departing once more, "Enjoy your night." Their questioning gazes followed him as he left the yard, making his way back through the house and hailing a cab outside.

***

As Yuri stepped back into the small house he and Otabek shared in Saint Petersburg several hours later, it finally hit him.

He walked numbly through the door, closing it and leaving his suitcase in the foyer. The grey light filtered in through the window: it was raining today, and Yuri watched as raindrops, shadowed from the window, slid down the wall opposite it, painting it in streaks of a dull, dreary grey.

As Yuri watched the raindrops' progress, his eyes landed on the photos hanging on the wall before him: Yuri, after winning his first Grand Prix Final at fifteen. 

Yuri, hanging onto Otabek with a bright grin the next year after winning Worlds. 

Yuri and Otabek holding up their respective gold and silver from Pyeongchang, closely followed by them grinning into the camera in front of this very house from the day they’d moved in. 

Then came Beijing, again gold and silver, this time Yuri and Otabek full-on hugging. 

Next was Milan, from the 2026 Olympics, the results the same as the first two, and Yuri and Otabek kissing right in front of the Olympic arena.

Yuri and Otabek, on the day of their wedding.

The photo was beautiful, and, though Yuri had initially been against it, Phichit had turned out to be the right choice for the wedding photographer. The shot was taken just as the couple had said "I do" and they stood wrapped in each others' embrace, in the middle of the first kiss.

Rose petals hung suspended in the air around them -- they hadn't planned that part, but it had been a scheme orchestrated by Victor himself and the audience threw them after the vows had been exchanged.

That day, everything had been bright and airy, the future so filled with hope and possibility and love. Now, Yuri could only see an unforgiving grey blanketing his world, and watched as the shadowy rain painted tear tracks down the cheeks of the Yuri in the picture.

That was it: the photo of the happiest day of his life overshadowed by watery illusions, and it all came rushing back. The kiss, the betrayal, everything, and Yuri's feeling of numb detachment, disbelief, maybe, was gone.

Yuri sank down onto the floor of the hallway, wrapping his arms around himself as racking sobs shook his body. On his knees, tears blurred his vision until he could see nothing but the distorted figures of his husband and the woman in the lilac dress in his mind's eye.

Yuri didn't know how long he stayed there, how long he rocked and sobbed and spilled tears until he had none left but couldn't stop. He didn't know when he stood up, when he walked upstairs and fell into bed. All he knew was that sometime later, when his tears were dried sticky on his face and fresh ones painted over them, when he felt the bed creak behind him from where he faced the wall, they had  
found him.

Very gently, arms reached around him, and Yuri was pulled into the chest of, not Otabek, but Yuuri, holding him softly and stroking his hair as he cried.

"I knew something was wrong when you left alone," Yuuri whispered, "Yuri, I'm so sorry."

Yuri could do nothing but sob, and he clung to Yuuri like a lifeline as his body shook and his world broke down around him. Yuuri held him, gently rocking him and murmuring meaningless words in his  
ear until Yuri cried himself out, falling asleep in the elder's arms.

***

Yuri awoke late that night, the jet lag pulling him from his fitful sleep at two am, when Yuuri and Victor had long gone home.

Yuri moved slowly, as if in a dream, slipping out from under the covers and padding barefoot downstairs. He paused in the entryway, looking again at the photo of himself and Otabek from their wedding,  
now barely visible in the dark slits of moonlight filtering in from closed blinds.

Yuri made his way over to the wall -- their memory wall, as they called it -- and gazed at the photo before slowly, gently, removing it from the hook. Yuri held it in his hand, the fingertips of his other just barely brushing the glass as he stared at it, remembering the moment it had been taken and what he had felt then.

Except he didn't feel it: he didn’t feel anything anymore. He didn't feel the love from the picture, nor the devastation and heartbreak from earlier -- no, he felt empty; hollow. And so, with calm, steady  
hands, Yuri reached up and slid the photo onto the top of the wardrobe in the hall, before letting it go, and going back to bed.

***

It was nearly two weeks before Yuri contacted Otabek again, most-likely through some mix of interference and threats on Victor and Yuuri's parts keeping him away. Picking his phone up from his nightstand for the first time in days, Yuri scrolled through his notifications unfeelingly.

60 texts from Otabek, and 20 calls. He was desperate, that much was obvious, and begged to see Yuri, to explain.

As Yuri sat on the edge of his bed, working his way through the unread messages and unheard voicemails, clearing them one by one, he felt nothing. This was just it, he supposed. This was his life.

Broken, abandoned, lied to, and cheated -- most recently, on -- Yuri figured that disappointment and hardship was just what fate had in store for him. Ever since his mother had left him at his grandfather's house at age five he'd known well that feeling of lonely abandonment. It was no stranger to him -- more a friend with whom you have a bitter-sweet relationship: you still know each other better than anyone else, but, on some level, you’re aware that it would be better if you didn't.

Yuri had been used to it before; he’d never needed friends, never needed to care about anyone other than his grandfather who hadn’t ever hurt him: he’d never sought to form a connection with someone only to be left all over again. He’d known how the world worked, then. Or, at least, he’d thought he did.

And then Otabek came into his life. He got him to trust him, got him to be his friend, and, suddenly, Yuri wasn't so alone anymore. 

No, Yuri had someone he could rely on, and, later, someone he loved. Someone he loved who loved him back and promised never to leave.

It took a while for Yuri to believe it, even longer for Yuri to say yes -- sure that Otabek would disappear, just like everyone else, but he didn't, and, eventually, Yuri knew he didn't have to be alone anymore.

They got married and it was the happiest day of Yuri's life, the day that Otabek promised him that he loved him in the strongest, most secure way. 

Yuri had believed him.

Yuri wished he hadn't.

When you trust someone, believe them when they say that it's you and only you, that you're enough, it only hurts worse when they're proven a liar. And they always are.

As, at last, Yuri came to the end of his notifications, he swiped the last one away with a finality.

No more. That he promised himself. No more caring, no more human emotion, no more love, and no more trust. No more lies.

With a detachment and steady hands, resigned to and accepting of his fate to be alone, Yuri opened his messages.

_I'll meet you at the coffee shop on the corner of Oak and Birchwood. 9 am on Thursday._

Yuri sent the message before shutting his phone off once more and pulling himself out of bed.

It was slow, everything felt slow, like molasses, as if the world's gravity had been altered and Yuri was made of lead, everything taking four times longer for him to do.

He did it though, and attributed the slowness to too much sleep -- he hadn't gotten out of bed in nearly three days. Now, though, he got out of it, up and out, and back to the real world. He took a shower, brushing his hair and teeth, and pulling on clothing. He made a breakfast of toast and sliced fruit, eating it quietly at the kitchen table, bathed in the early morning sun.

And then, for the first time in days, something happened quickly. 

Yuri's stomach turned and he lurched out of his seat, finding himself on his knees before the toilet moments later, emptying his recent breakfast into the basin.

By the time he finished, his skin was clammy, and his hair was damp with sweat. He sat there for a second, letting his breath even out as sensation washed over him.

Eventually, he stood up, brushed his hair out of his face, and flushed the toilet, going back to his day.

He met Victor at the rink and either ignored or brushed off his questions and concerns over why Yuri was back so soon, and whether it might be better for him to take some time off? That was the last thing Yuri wanted, and he told Victor so in an impassive undertone, explaining that things would be simpler if he could just get back to normal.

No matter that his normal had included his husband.

Had, being the operative word.

Yuri finished out his sessions at the rink and moved on to the ballet portion of his day, joining Yuuri at the studio for the class he taught on beginning steps and positions. Again, he received the probing, concerned questions, and sympathetic gazes, but Yuri dismissed them.

He was fine.

This was what was bound to happen -- in just about every aspect of his life -- and Yuri had better get used to it, he thought. He sought no comfort nor displayed any emotions for he had none. He was alone, and that was all there was to it. Emotions only complicated things -- hadn't he proven that to himself time and time again?

No, it would be easier to have a clean break, and that was why, he decided, as he thought back to the message on his phone, he had agreed to meet Otabek in eight days' time.

No blood, no gore, no tears, or trauma, Yuri would go to the cafe and lay out the situation, explain to Otabek that he wasn't upset, but that things hadn't worked out. He'd say that one of them would move out, he didn't care who, and that the assets would be split. No harm, no foul.

If only things were that simple.

Yuri stared at the test in his hand. He'd bought it as a precaution, to dismiss even the question. But after he'd thrown up for nine days straight, like clockwork, he had done it to get Yuuri off of his back, who was too observant for his own damn good.

This, however, was not what he'd expected it to say.

It took Yuri a full fifteen minutes to process it, and then some. By the time he'd finally pulled himself to his feet and off of his bathroom floor, he was already late for his meeting with Otabek.

He canceled.

It could wait. He needed time to think now. Now that things had become infinitely more complicated.

The second he walked into the ballet studio that day, he was assaulted with questions of "how did it go?" and "what did he say?" and "how do you feel?" Yuri had answered none of them, simply dumping  
his bag behind the desk, and letting himself fall into the chair with a dull thud.

"I'm pregnant," he said dully, his eyes glazed over, "I took the test today. You were right."

Yuuri said nothing, but his eyes did all the talking for him. Worry, concern, sympathy, and about fifteen other emotions flashed through his irises before he finally spoke.

"What are you going to do?" Yuuri asked and Yuri simply shrugged his shoulders dejectedly.

"I have no idea," he replied honestly. 

Yuuri didn't miss a beat, "Have you told Otabek? You were supposed to see him today, right?"

Yuri shook his head."I rescheduled," he murmured, "We're meeting on Sunday instead. I said something came up."

"Are you going to tell him?" Yuuri asked quietly and Yuri sighed.

"I have to, don't I?" It was more of a rhetorical question than anything, but Yuuri still bit his lip in response.

"In all fairness," he said finally, "I don't think there's much you _have_ to do after what he did,"

Yuri let out a bitter, hollow laugh. "I'm not sure this counts," he replied, before letting his head fall into his hands. "I'm afraid to tell him though, not before I figure out what I want to do." Yuri sighed, "He'll  
want me to keep it, I know he will."

"Do you?" Yuuri asked tentatively, taking the chair next to Yuri's, "Want to keep it, I mean?"

"I don't know." Yuri said heavily, "It's the worst possible timing, and I've had so little time to think," he paused for a moment, "What should I do?" He asked so quietly that if Yuuri hadn't been watching his lips move behind a curtain of hair he would've missed it, "What _can_ I do?" Yuuri shook his head and reached out to set a hand on Yuri's shoulder, squeezing it softly.

"That's something only you can decide."

***

It was 9:02 am when Yuri walked into the cafe three days later, his chest tightening as he caught sight of that familiar, dark undercut. He ducked his head, letting his hair fall forward into his face before sweeping it back behind his ear, resolutely pushing any feelings he might’ve had away as he sat down next to his husband.

"Yuri," Otabek looked awful: there were dark bags under his eyes and he looked as though he hadn't slept in days, his normally, well-kept haircut disheveled. "Thank god you came," he breathed and Yuri stiffened, not meeting his eyes, "Please, will you let me explain?" Yuri made a concentrated effort to slow his pounding heart and shook his head.

"I don't want to know," he said softly, dipping his head to scan the menu before him, "I-- I don't care about how it happened. I just wanted to meet to deal with the consequences."

"Yuri, I--"

"I'm pregnant." Yuri interrupted him, looking him full in the face with one devoid of emotion. He paused for a second before continuing, "I'm keeping it." And it was true.

He didn't know why he'd decided to do so, nor when; all he knew was that when he’d woken up this morning, he simply _couldn't_ get rid of it. He wasn’t left with much of a choice after that.

All of the stress, anxiety, and exhaustion seemed to melt from Otabek's face as it lit with a smile, and he reached toward him, "That's amazing! Oh my god, Yuri, that's--" Yuri drew back quickly from the approach, recoiling into himself at the attempted contact.

"Don't misunderstand me." Yuri cut him off tonelessly. "I'm keeping it, but that doesn't mean I'm staying with you," Otabek's face fell. The look in his eyes -- one of shattered hope -- was one Yuri knew well; he averted his gaze. "I just thought you should know." 

Otabek stared at him, "I-- I don't know what to say," Otabek murmured after a second. 

Yuri shrugged, eyes sinking to the menu once more, "Then don't." He responded simply, "It's my choice, and I'm just letting you know for practicality's sake. Make of it what you will."

"'Practicality's sake?'" Otabek echoed, looking deeply hurt for a split second before his face reverted back to its customary, unreadable stoicism. "What does that mean?" 

Yuri shrugged again. "What it says." Yuri replied shortly, "You're the father, you have the right to know. Not to mention that this complicates things with the separation, so we’ll have to work that out."

"Separation?" Otabek's eyes flitted from Yuri to the menu at which his gaze remained focused. "Who said anything about a separation?"

Yuri set the menu aside with a resigned sigh and looked Otabek in the eyes, "Otabek, did you not think this was going to happen?" Otabek flinched at his given name in lieu of the diminutive they'd been using for years. "We're separating -- isn't it obvious?"

"Yuri," Otabek couldn't help the pleading tone in his voice, "Please, just let me explain--"

"No." Yuri’s voice was quiet but hard: it left no room for argument. "Otabek," he spoke clearly, enunciating every syllable, "We are separating. One of us will move out -- I frankly don't care who, and, if you want to, we can have split custody of the child."

"So that's it?" Otabek asked, his voice breaking, and as hard as he tried, he couldn't keep the accusatory tone from the question, "No discussion, no attempt to work through this -- you're just done?"

"I can't see that there’s anything else left to say." Yuri replied in an even, clipped tone and his complete and utter lack of emotion was starting to get to Otabek.

"How can you be so blase about this?" Otabek demanded, "Don't you feel anything?"

"I don't know what you want me to say," Yuri said tightly, "It is what it is. If this were up to me, we wouldn't be in this situation, but it wasn't up to me so I'm just dealing with the fallout."

"But it is up to you!" Otabek cried desperately, "You're the one pushing for a separation -- just give me a chance to explain things!"

"No." Yuri snapped, before taking a measured breath and standing up. "No," he said again, calmly, and his voice went back to that robotic clip that Otabek was really beginning to hate, "This is it, Otabek.  
This is what's going to happen. If you want to be in the baby's life, you can be, if you don't, you're free. That's all this was about." 

Otabek let out a low, wounded sound, "How can you say that?" He asked quietly, "Of course I want to be in the baby's life -- I want to be in your life -- Yuri, you can't just walk away from this.”

Yuri took a restrained breath and gave a sharp nod, "Okay, if you want to have contact you can: you can be involved." Yuri replied, completely ignoring the second half of what Otabek had said.

"Yuri--"

"I'll keep you informed." And with that, Yuri turned on his heel and exited the cafe, leaving a stunned and desperate Otabek in his wake.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Recap from the last chapter: Yuri walks in on Otabek kissing a woman during the banquet of their last competition after retiring, doesn't let him explain, and essentially decides that they'll be separating. Later, he finds out he's pregnant, decides to keep the child, and makes it known to Otabek that he can have partial custody, to which he is frantic to agree to.

It’s a strange thing to describe misery. Especially so when misery isn’t really what you’re feeling. Numbness, detachment, the sense of being a ghost-- those would be better terms for how Yuri lived.

It wasn’t that he was depressed, it wasn’t even that he was simply angry at his current situation -- no matter how inclined to the emotion he had been in the past -- it was more that he was, well, he was just there.

There was no adjective, there was no explanation or fancily worded term, Yuri just floated through life on autopilot; not taking in his surroundings nor taking the time to process specific moments, he just drifted aimlessly through his days, unfeeling as they passed him by.

He lived in a blur, in a bleak, misty shadow that seemed to follow him around and engulf his every motion. He used to mind that shadow-- he’d hated it in his youth, done everything he could to drive it back and keep it at bay. Now, however, he had no feelings about it, hell, he wasn’t entirely convinced the shadow was even there, simply functioning through it.

He was fine, and that was just what he told everyone else.

He moved through his days with routine, a practiced normalcy guiding his limbs through their tasks and directing his mind to speak only when his students _still_ couldn’t land that one jump because they kept turning their knee out and pulling themselves off-center, or when the barista messed up his -- decaf-- coffee order for the fifteenth time in a row.

While these flaws, these marginally irritating, persistent mistakes used to drive him up the wall -- so much so that he would inevitably snap at his student and demonstrate the damn move himself, or growl at the barista that he was there _every damn day_ and how could she not know by now? he didn’t get angry anymore. 

Which wasn’t to say that he was patient, for he wasn’t, in any regard, nor would he ever be, but he didn’t explode anymore -- couldn’t seem to find that fiery, if sometimes destructive, passion inside of him whenever it used to burst out at a moment’s notice.

Now, he calmly, if blankly, took the student’s offending, turned-out knee and pushed it resolutely in, giving them an exercise band or brace or something to keep it in place, and placated the inevitably pissed-off pupil with half-hearted praise once the jump was finally landed.

Yuri’s days passed with rhythm, predictable in their bland, unassuming nature and occupation of time. Yuri didn’t much mind them; he did what he was supposed to, earned his pay, and stayed alive. He did it all though, with that same vacancy, and, eventually, people started to notice.

It was Victor and Yuuri first, because, of course it was, stopping him in the hall and asking him worriedly if he was okay, if he needed someone to talk to, a shoulder to cry on. And Yuri had thanked them for their concern, but reasserted that he was, in fact, _fine,_ and just tired that day. 

Except it was every day.

Soon, his students started to take notice that their usually obnoxious, prone-to-yelling teacher was no longer either obnoxious or a yelled.

The question came one day while he was lecturing Ekaterina about her Firebird Leap during his Senior Pointe class, explaining resignedly the importance of the plie take-off to her otherwise-occupied ears.

“Yuri,” She interrupted him halfway through his description of momentum and why it was gained from a correct grande plie. “Are you okay?” Yuri stopped, not having expected the question.

“Yes.” He replied, “Of course; why do you ask?” 

The girl shrugged, “You’re just different now, that’s all,” she murmured, digging the toe of her pointe shoe into the crack between the wall and its white edging. “You never get mad anymore, it’s like you don’t care.”

“I’m fine,” Yuri replied, and when the girl looked up at him with widened, concerned eyes, he turned away, glancing at the floor and trying not to remember how he had once forced Otabek into a ballet lesson in this very studio, and how hard they had laughed when he had failed to even get his elbows on the floor while doing a straddle. “Let’s get back to work,” Yuri returned to reality, firmly rooting his head to his shoulders and out of the clouds, “Show me your Firebird again.” The girl did as she was told, and the day progressed.

That day when Yuri got home, it was to a quiet, empty house, and he dropped his bag by the door as Potya ran up to greet him. She sniffed at the closed door behind him hopefully, but Yuri picked her up, cradling her in his arms as he walked away, knowing full well who the cat was waiting for and not wanting to upset her further.

It had to be hard for her -- Otabek moving out. Animals formed bonds with humans and Potya had accepted Otabek on sight, happily trotting up to him and delicately clawing her way up his pant leg and onto his shoulder. Needless to say, they were very close.

Without him, though, Potya was obviously discontent with only Yuri for company, and missed the other man’s presence. It couldn’t help either how finely-tuned cats were to emotions and their shifting, for Potya was far more reserved these days, sitting tamely in Yuri’s lap and not requiring any extraneous petting -- simply being there (for him, it almost seemed).

As Yuri set Potya delicately down on the kitchen counter, he turned and glanced toward the fridge, finding himself uninterested in its contents. Changing his mind on his anticipated meal, Yuri grabbed a banana and a handful of nuts, letting them serve as his dinner as he scooped his cat up once more and climbed the stairs for bed.

While Yuri did mentally chastise himself at the light meal, he found himself grateful for it when morning came and his daily routine recommenced. 

Yuri wrenched himself out of bed at 5:30, like clockwork, and emptied his stomach’s meager contents into the toilet, slumping down and leaning his head against the cool basin once he had finished. 

It was another minute or two before he stood again, rinsing his mouth out with water and skipping brushing his teeth for the moment -- knowing from repeated experience that toothpaste was _not_ appealing to a freshly emptied stomach first thing in the morning, and opting to get in the shower instead.

Yuri tilted his head back as the jets of water hit him, drenching his hair and trickling in long rivulets down his back, collecting in the hollow in the small of it before he shifted again, and it dissipated. It was in moments like these, early in the morning just after being sick, that Yuri truly took notice of how his body was changing, for, as time passed, so did his pregnancy.

He moved a hand to cup the small swell of his abdomen -- not at all noticeable if he wore anything at all, but hardened to the touch. Instead of the abs that had previously occupied the space, Yuri’s stomach was flat, save for the minuscule, barely-there roundness resting low upon it. Less like belly fat and more like a protective shell, Yuri observed, letting his fingers play over the pale skin in the soft light drifting in through the window. 

As Yuri tipped his head up and let the water cascade down his face and body, he thought it was one of the only real effects of his pregnancy that he had yet dealt with. He hadn’t told many people yet: his classes were too keen to pry into his personal life after his attitude change in recent months as it was, and Victor and Yuuri already knew -- and in them the only true people of consequence were aware. 

That was to say, the only remaining ones.

Otabek already knew and had been meeting Yuri at the coffee shop on biweekly Sundays to discuss arrangements to be made, and his grandfather had died only seven months prior to the Worlds Banquet.

Lilia and Yakov didn’t know yet, Yuri conceded to himself, but he had plenty of time to tell them. Lilia, he was sure, would have figured it out before a syllable passed his lips, it being that she saw him every alternate Thursday when she swapped teaching his adult ballet class with her friend, but Yuri rarely saw Yakov anymore, and would have to ask Lilia to relay the message.

He wasn’t sure how they would react. The circumstances were far from ideal, sure, but he hoped they wouldn’t take it as such a bad thing, for, as hard as he tried to have an opinion on the matter, he was neither excited nor upset about his impending child, he just accepted it and moved along with his day. 

Probably not a healthy headspace to be in, Yuri knew deep down, but couldn’t find it in himself to particularly care.

Stepping slowly out of the shower and leaning down to grab his towel from the slightly damp floor, Yuri shut his eyes briefly, feeling every minute of his day so far and reluctantly raising his gaze to the mirror, towel in hand. 

The glass was misted and foggy from the steam of his shower, though he hadn’t registered it as a particularly hot one, and he took his hand and swiped lightly across it, leaving water droplets behind in the freshly cleared, eye-level space. Yuri gazed into his reflection, his normally vivid green eyes dulled slightly in the early morning stupor, and was recalled into a memory of an early morning similar to this one from not too long ago.

_Yuri groaned as he stared blearily into the mirror just above the sink, his eyelids drooping as he held a toothbrush suspended halfway to his mouth in a motionless hand._

_Early morning practices were the worst._

_Then, slowly, another hand snaked up Yuri’s immobile one and gently guided it up to his mouth, where Yuri grudgingly allowed the toothbrush entrance. As he started scrubbing away at the gunk that had accumulated in his mouth overnight, a tan, dark-haired head slowly popped into view behind him. Yuri couldn’t help the endeared grin that formed on his face as he watched his husband wrap his arms around him in the misty mirror._

_It was August and one of the few times that Saint Petersburg was actually **really fucking hot,** and, needless to say, Yuri couldn’t wait for December, deciding, as he did every summer, that he was most definitely a winter person. As if his profession didn’t already suggest it._

_“Good morning,” Otabek murmured, pressing a kiss behind Yuri’s ear as the blond ran his toothbrush under the water to clean it off._

_“Good morning,” Yuri replied after spitting the toothpaste into the sink, turning in his husband’s arms to face him. Otabek smiled that warm, loving, just-for-Yuri smile that Yuri loved more than anything in the world, and wrapped his arms more securely around him, pulling him closer._

_The bathroom was warm, it being mid-August -- even though it was barely 5:00 am -- and Otabek was someone whose occupation in life doubled as a living furnace. At any other time, with any other person, Yuri would’ve squirmed away from the touch, not needing any extra body heat on the already humid day. It was Otabek though, and Yuri snuggled closer, smiling softly as a kiss was pressed to the top of his bedhead, still a bit wet from the shower, and, suddenly, he didn’t as much mind getting up at 4:30 am._

Yuri gazed into the mirror, seeing that hazy summer day in its fog, staring at the picture of himself and his husband, wrapped in each other’s arms. And then the steam from the mirror had dissipated, and the image was gone, replaced by Yuri alone, his eyes dim in the cheerful morning sunlight.

Yuri looked away.

***

That morning was a particularly difficult one, it transpired, and Yuri held himself just about immobile on the stool at the kitchen island, head pounding and unwilling to take anything to rid himself of the sensation. Glancing at the clock on the wall, Yuri sighed softly: he needed to be gone in less than an hour and had yet to make a motion in the way of procuring food for himself.

Potya curled around his legs, already having inhaled her breakfast and coming over for some attention. Yuri watched as his cat jumped gracefully onto the island and padded over to where Yuri sat with his elbows resting on the marble, fingers pressing into his temples and trying to soothe the pounding in his head. Gently, as if she knew he was in pain, Potya rubbed her chin against his wrist.

Resigning himself to a tension headache for the rest of the day, Yuri abandoned his attempts and lowered Potya’s chosen hand to stroke the cat, and she purred under the slow pets against her smooth fur. He ran his fingers through it, scratching halfheartedly behind the feline’s ears before standing up and making his way over to the fridge. 

Opening it, Yuri scanned the meager contents; he didn’t feel at all hungry, and normally he would let himself slide on breakfast on days like today. With the knowledge that he’d just about skipped dinner the night before, though, he selected a small container of yogurt and blackberries, eating them uninterestedly-- the taste like that of sand as he chewed. 

With the passable breakfast stomached, Yuri set the dirty dishes in the sink, intending to clean them later, and gave Potya one last pet before walking out the door.

It was a bright May morning when Yuri stepped outside, the light blinding him momentarily before he managed to shield his eyes and lock the door. This morning would be a memorable one, Yuri thought, if what he’d been told was anything to go by: everyone said that your first doctor’s appointment was a miraculous experience, that, even though it was often too early for an ultrasound, you felt more connected to your baby than ever before. 

Secretly, Yuri hoped that that last part was true; he didn’t feel much of a connection with anything at all, at the moment, and was really rather neutral in emotions where most expectant parents were bursting with joy. 

Then again, there was only one of him, so maybe that explained some of his lack-of-enthusiasm: he’d always fed off of the excitement of others -- it was what had made him a great performer -- so maybe without that, it was just harder for him to conjure it on his own.

Yuri was still pondering this when he found himself pulling into the parking lot of the maternity clinic, and was surprised to find that he had managed to make the trip entirely on autopilot after having been there only once before. But he had always had a good sense of direction, he supposed as he got out of the car; even when he and Otabek had gone to New York for a week on their honeymoon four years back, he had been unafraid of the infamous Manhattan traffic. If anything, it was Otabek who got lost easily; he had been downright terrified when Yuri had left the car parked on some street or other in pursuit of the Broadway show for which they were very nearly late, with claims of “I’ll find my way back!” and had been absolutely astonished when Yuri had, in fact, found their way back on his first try.

The memory of the utterly flabbergasted look Otabek had worn that day still made Yuri laugh, and as he looked around himself on the pavement before the prenatal office, he made a concentrated effort to push it from his mind: no need to dwell on things that he wouldn’t get.

In an attempt to ground himself from his fantasies -- for that’s what they were: fantasies --, Yuri scanned the complex he stood at the center of, taking in the maternity clothing store, Babies-R-Us, daycare, baby cafe, and maternal health clinic; whoever designed this complex must’ve had a one-track mind, he thought, before feeding the parking meter and walking into the clinic.

The waiting room was a bright, cheery place painted in a pale yellow with soft pinks and baby blues common around the space, and as Yuri sent a cursory glance around, he found several posters of smiling families and pregnant women littering the walls. The pictures were pleasant, sure, but as Yuri made his way over to the check-in with the receptionist, he couldn’t help but think that the smiles looked forced -- insincere at best. 

After marking his name down on the list, Yuri found himself directed to wait in one of the rows of chairs along the wall, in front of a small, friendly-looking play place, (the practice doubled as a pediatrician’s office, Yuri then learned) and as he sat down, watched as a little girl’s head poked out of the playhouse.

With a shriek of laughter, the girl disappeared back into her sanctuary as a man (presumably her father) stalked up to her. The man wore an exaggeratedly-mean look on his face and lowered himself to  
his hands and knees before the opening in the small house. 

“Daddy, come find me!” The little girl’s voice rang out from the inside, choked with giggles. The man smiled softly, his villain persona breaking for a second before he got back into character, lunging forward and thrusting one hand into the house with an almighty roar. “Daddy!” The little girl cried again, screaming and laughing as she reappeared to the room at large, being tugged gently out by her ankle in her father’s grasp.

“Gotcha!” The man cried and grabbed his daughter, tickling her mercilessly while she shrieked with glee, tiny, ineffectual fists raining down on him as she tried to free herself from the tickle-torture. 

From the small, cushioned booth running along the short wall dividing the normal (presumably maternity) waiting room from the pediatric play place, a laugh rang out. Yuri turned and his gaze landed on a brunette woman, heavily pregnant, and watching completely enraptured by the scene before her. 

“Get him, Sarah!” She called to the little girl who displayed absolutely no sign of having heard her, writhing and thrashing around in her father’s arms, giggling hysterically. The mother didn’t seem to mind not having been noticed, though, and continued to look on at her family, a soft, content smile on her face. Gently, as if unconsciously, her hand drifted down to her abdomen, lying across it -- almost like she could picture its inhabitant a part of the crazy family shenanigans already.

“Petrov?” A blonde nurse called from the doorway to an exam room, and the woman looked up, her husband glancing around as well from his position still play-fighting with their daughter. 

“That’s us,” the mother responded before turning on her husband, laughing, “Paul, let Sarah up-- she’s turning blue!” The man looked down and chuckled at the sight of his little girl trying to hold her breath to stop the giggles from coming out.

“Yes, my dear!” He called over his shoulder before turning and giving -- Sarah, apparently -- one last poke in the belly, and receiving one last screech of mirth before pulling her into his arms and standing up. Setting his daughter on her feet again, Paul made his way over to his wife, slinking an arm around her waist and helping her to her feet. 

She blushed slightly, shaking her head through a smile at her husband’s antics. “I could’ve done it myself,” she murmured, accepting his hug,

“Of course you could’ve,” her husband returned, smiling warmly, “Which was what made it all the more fun helping you. I get to pretend like I’m a big strong man and you’re my damsel in distress, you see.” 

The woman laughed, “Ah, I do.” Before turning to their daughter-- calling her towards her. 

Together, the family made their way over to the nurse who had called their name, now smiling at them as they approached. 

Watching them disappear behind the exam room door, Yuri felt a strange swirl of emotions within him. 

_I wonder if Otabek will play with our child like that._

_Of course, he will: he’ll be a great dad._

And all of a sudden, before he could stop himself, he saw what their family would look like. It was really just a mental video of the other family, only with Yuri’s and Otabek’s faces superimposed over theirs, but he could see clearly the way Otabek played with their little girl, the way he tickled her and held her close-- always ever so gently. And then he could see himself, see him smiling and laughing, see Otabek coming over to him with their daughter at his heel, see him helping Yuri stand with his abdomen the size of a melon for the second time in his life, see him hug him gently, give him a soft kiss--

“Plisetsky?” Yuri snapped back to reality, refocusing himself on the nurse who stood in a doorway calling his name. Yuri stood, making his way over to her. She smiled kindly, “Are we waiting for anyone else to get here before we start?” 

Yuri hesitated: if he called, Otabek would come, he knew he would. 

Yuri sucked in a breath, “No,” he replied evenly, “No: I’m alone.”

“Alright,” the nurse smiled at him again. “Come with me please,” 

And he went, leaving his delusional little fantasies behind.

***

“Yuri,” Yuri stopped midstep, freezing on the polished wooden floor. “Stay back a minute, I have something I wish to discuss with you,” Yuri let out a soft breath before turning back to Lilia; he’d known all along that she would figure it out on her own, and now was as good a time as any to tell her, he supposed.

“Yes?” 

The woman looked him over with a keen, critical eye, her gaze incisive, seeming, as ever, to draw the truth from him. She seemed to land on what she wanted to say as she watched him, and, ever the straight-forward person she was, saw no reason to beat around the bush. “How far along are you?” The question was delivered with a completely straight face-- no hint of emotion, disapproval nor glee, evident in her features.

“About four months,” Yuri said simply, tonelessly. “I had my first appointment this morning.” 

A perfectly sculpted eyebrow raised,

“You’re supposed to go in far before then,” she chastised him, as plainly as if she were still his coach and was telling him for the umpteenth time that his arabesque should be higher.

“It took me a while to realize,” Yuri replied flatly, the words of the doctor floating through his head, _“...Underweight, almost dangerously so. Any more and it’ll affect the baby,”_

Lilia gave him a long, penetrating look, before at last giving a brief nod. “You’ll keep it?” It was Yuri’s turn to nod. With another searching glance at his emotionless face, she asked, “Does he know?” They both knew who she was talking about: there was only one option, and Yuri repeated his previous gesture. “I see,” She clipped, “I suppose you’ll be dropping out of class, then?” Yuri nodded a third time and Lilia sighed, “I’ll make sure Yakov is notified.”

“Thank you.” Yuri finally spoke. 

Watching him with no unconcerned eye, Lilia began, her tone sharp as ever, though not unkind, “Yuri--”

“I have a student,” Yuri interrupted her, voice and face still perfectly even, “She’s very promising; I’d like you to see her dance,” 

Lilia regarded him for a moment, “I’ll sit in on her class,” No matter that she was officially retired.

“Thank you.” Yuri said again, before turning, scooping up his bag, and walking out of the studio.

***

The rest of the week passed as ever: Yuri worked at the studio, served his hours at the rink, and even filled in for Yuuri in the junior ballet class he usually taught. It was the Sunday after he had spoken with Lilia that he found himself turning onto the corner of Birchwood and Oak, making his way back to the coffee shop where it had all begun.

Yuri stepped into the small, brightly-lit cafe at exactly 9:02 am and was met, as always, by the sight of Otabek at the small table he seemed to have claimed as their own. With the sixth sense he appeared to have gained since the aftermath of Worlds, Otabek turned the second Yuri stepped into the shop, smiling tentatively at him as he approached the table.

“Good morning.” Otabek said with that small, cautious, braced-for-rejection smile.

“Good morning.” Yuri replied, face flat, before glancing down at the table before him and looking up to Otabek for explanation.

“I ordered you a crepe,” Otabek said quickly, looking nervous, a crease appearing between his eyebrows. 

Yuri hadn’t expected that: though it was true that Otabek was always at the cafe before him, he had thought that it was only a minute or two so before he arrived; the fact that Otabek had not only beat him to the shop but had had enough time to order _and_ for the food to arrive before Yuri met him, made him wonder just how early he’d been getting there.

While contemplating this, Yuri hadn’t said anything, and, misreading Yuri’s silence as annoyance or wanting for further explanation, Otabek continued, “It’s lemon and peach with ground ginger,” Otabek said, with every appearance of a child afraid of being scolded. “Ginger’s supposed to help the nausea, and lemon and peach are good too. I know around now the morning sickness really kicks in, and you never seem to eat, so I thought...” He trailed off, apprehension written in every line of his face. 

Yuri paused, not having expected this but not really all that surprised; it was such an Otabek thing to do, after all, and there was truth to his words, and yet…

“I already ate.” 

That was a blatant lie.

_“...Gain weight… too thin… unsafe.”_ The doctor’s words whispered in his head, but, try as he might (though he knew deep down that he had given up a long time ago), he just simply wasn’t hungry.

“Oh,” Otabek looked crestfallen, deflating and doing his best to remain unconcerned though it was obvious to Yuri that he wasn’t. “Of course, I’m sorry, I’ll just, uh, I’ll get rid of it then.” He looked so disappointed. Yuri looked at the tablecloth.

The intervening minutes were awkward: Otabek flagged down a waitress and Yuri, knowing that he hadn’t eaten anything at all that day, ordered a glass of water. Otabek, feigning indifference to Yuri’s rejection in the form of a crepe, took a sip of his coffee, only to promptly burn his tongue, and he hissed slightly as his face grew red.

As Otabek attempted to ignore a scalded tongue, Yuri couldn’t help but remember when they had gone to the Christmas parade in Saint Petersburg a few months back. It had been the only time they’d been able to go-- the Grand Prix always either falling on or so close to Christmas that they were often countries away from home when the parade took place, but by stroke of luck, it had been scheduled oddly late that year, leaving Yuri and Otabek in town for the celebrations. 

It had been Otabek’s first parade, the aforementioned conflicts keeping him from seeing Petersburg in all of its wintery glory, but Yuri had been to the parade tons of times with his grandfather as a child, and had taken great pleasure in showing Otabek everything he deemed important.

It had been fucking freezing, it being winter in Russia and all, and standing just about immobile in the wind and snow hadn’t helped any. Seeking a solution to the human-icicle inducing temperatures, Otabek had bought them both large mugs of hot chocolate and they’d conveniently forgotten that the beverage was absolutely not in their diet plans.

Immediately after purchasing the drinks, and delivering Yuri his, Otabek had taken a sip of his own-- doing so without having noticed the sign on the vendor’s cart that warned about high product temperatures and recommended a three-minute wait before ingesting the beverage. Yuri, having made the mistake too many times to either make it again or feel too much sympathy for Otabek, proceeded to laugh and record it when his husband promptly turned red, and watched unhelpfully as -- and this he swore to -- steam came out of his ears. 

It had taken a good ten minutes, and several handfuls of snow, to bring some relief to poor Otabek, and Yuri had just shaken his head, smiling amusedly as his husband sported a kicked-puppy look all the way home, thinking with affection that _this_ was the idiot he’d decided to marry, and, with a slight smile at Otabek, that he was _his_ idiot.

Yuri re-emerged from the memory with a snap, glancing up from the water glass he’d been staring vacantly into as Otabek tried, inconspicuously, to order a singular ice cube. 

If the scene had happened only a few months before it did, Yuri would have laughed affectionately at the dumbass he called his husband. Now, though, he looked away, trying his best not to remember. To remember brought on illusions of contented domesticity-- as if he and Otabek had been together forever, and _would_ be together forever, a nice idea but wholeheartedly unrealistic in Yuri’s eyes. 

Being with Otabek had been a brief taste of commitment, attachment that lasted, but it had been just that: a taste. Yuri would never get that kind of steady, stable love in his life. Otabek had been the closest he would ever get to it: the man had been with him for eleven years, and it took a special kind of person to tolerate him for that long the way Otabek had. But Yuri had been too much, and had driven him away, just like he did everyone-- so it really wasn’t all that surprising that lovely, patient Otabek had eventually reached even his limit and sought an escape.

Yes, Otabek was the type of kind, amazing person who could deal with, and, maybe for a short time, even love, Yuri. But that time was up, Yuri reminded himself again. Yuri wasn’t going to get forever; he’d made his peace with that, so there was no use dreaming of what he could never have.

Wrenching himself from his mind and finding Otabek regarding him with a concerned gaze, Yuri struck about for a distraction and found it in bringing up the reason they were there in the first place: the separation. Details were discussed and rough copies of contracts and legal papers were fleshed out, and by the time the question came, Yuri was so engrossed in reading over a lawyer’s statement that he almost had to do a double-take.

“So,” Otabek began, looking awkward, like he knew he shouldn’t be asking but just couldn’t help it, “How are you?” 

“Fine.”

“How’s Potya?” He tried again.

“She’s fine,” Yuri’s words were clipped, hollow. “I’ve been getting Victor to do her litter boxes.”

Otabek nodded, searching his brain for something that could bring animation to the blonde. Normally, Potya was a surefire way to get a conversation going-- Yuri always being keen and excited to talk about his cat’s antics. Now: nothing. 

“That’s good,” Otabek replied, relieved at least of the fact that Yuri hadn’t been trying to deal with Potya’s litter when it was so dangerous while he was pregnant. “How are things at the studio?”

“Fine,” Yuri said again, impassive and reserved as ever. 

Okay, conversation was not going to be easy.

In a last-ditch attempt at small talk, and feeling himself die a little on the inside that this was what his relationship with Yuri had been reduced to, Otabek asked, borderline desperately, “How far along are you, again?” 

“Sixteen weeks.” Yuri answered, as indifferently as if he was giving the traffic report.

“Sixteen?” Otabek echoed, suddenly surprised and concerned. And, before thinking, “Aren’t you supposed to go in to get checked out before then?” He knew full well that you were: eight weeks was late for a first appointment-- sixteen was unheard of.

“I did,” Yuri’s voice was clipped, “I had an appointment a few days ago.”

“You already went to the doctor?” Otabek’s voice betrayed his hurt, and his chocolate brown eyes were suddenly very sad. Yuri nodded and Otabek pressed his mouth firm, looking down at his hands, twisted together in his lap, before schooling his face back to its trademark stoicism. “I thought that you would have mentioned it,” his voice was carefully controlled, but after so long with him, Yuri could see right through the charade. “Would’ve let me know.” 

“You had a meeting,” Yuri responded, hearing exactly what Otabek wanted to, but didn’t, say. “A contract with the label; it was still on the calendar.” 

The shared calendar with the cat pictures on it that hung in their kitchen.

“Oh,” Otabek’s voice was hollow and he looked like he was struggling to maintain his neutral mask, but it flickered despite his attempts, his eyes clearly pained. “I could’ve missed it,” he looked toward  
Yuri, expression both guarded and searching. “I had hoped to be there.” 

“It was mostly tests: you didn’t miss much,” Yuri said after a beat, “But,” he reached into his wallet and withdrew a slip of paper. “Here; they gave me copies,”

“Is this--” Otabek’s nonchalant facade shattered, eyes wide and fixed on the copy of the ultrasound.

Yuri gave a stiff nod, eyes on the tablecloth. 

Otabek didn’t speak for several minutes after that, gazing enraptured at the tiny photo, and, if Yuri had looked closer, he might have seen the intermingled joy and despair in his eyes. 

When Otabek finally broke from his trance, he moved to hand the picture back, looking unwilling even as he held it out for Yuri to take.

“Keep it,” Yuri returned, “I have copies.” 

Otabek nodded, swallowing slightly, and moved to tuck the paper into his pocket with the utmost care before saying, hesitantly, “I would really like to come to the next appointment.” 

The question was in his voice.

A moment passed before Yuri nodded slightly, “I’m scheduled to go back in June,” he replied, and Otabek took a small breath before nodding as well, “I’ll give you the address.” 

Otabek nodded again, and, sensing their imminent departure, a waitress came over, leaving the bill on the table. “I’ll get it.” Otabek said immediately and reached for it but Yuri shook his head.

“I can pay for myself.”

“Let me at least get the crepe-- you didn’t even order it,” Otabek tried, his tone not dissimilar to a plea.

“I can pay.” There was something in Yuri’s voice that was hard and sharp-- something going far beyond matters of crepes. 

“Okay,” Otabek replied softly as Yuri paid for what he’d gotten, uncaring that he hadn’t even eaten it.

Yuri waited just long enough for the waitress to return with his receipt before getting up; he offered a short nod to Otabek before walking out of the cafe. Otabek watched him go, a sadness in his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next update on **JUNE 12TH**
> 
> As always, comments and kudos are greatly appreciated! ♥
> 
> Let me know what you think!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last Chapter Recap: Yuri tells Lilia about the pregnancy and she consents to watch a student of Yuri's dance. A few flashbacks to and longings for domestic life with Otabek are featured and Yuri combats that by reaffirming to himself that he is unloveable and that he needs to suck it up and move on. Several people question Yuri's wellbeing, and, when meeting to discuss the separation with Otabek, Yuri rejects him in the form of a crepe, but consents to let him know about when his next doctor's appointment is in the face of Otabek's disappointment for having missed the first.

Over the next few weeks, Yuri encountered many changes in his life, the first of which being that he had been asked to permanently take over the junior ballet class for which he’d once substitute-taught. The next change, coming within the hour of the first, was that his hours at the rink had been cut. The excuse Victor had given for the decision was that with Yuri’s new ballet class, the hours at the rink became unnecessary, and, in hopes of avoiding an argument (an unnecessary fear, really, for there was no hope of rekindling Yuri’s old flame), Victor said that Yuri would retain two on-ice classes a week, though rudimentary level ones. 

Though the rationale behind Victor’s decision did, in theory, make sense, Yuri suspected that his motivation for the change came from a less logical place in him than his brain.

Yuuri and Victor were worried, that was clear as day. What they were worried about, Yuri could not say for certain; maybe it was his continuing as usual under changed circumstances, maybe his continued disinterest in his pregnancy, maybe even his hollow, uninterested demeanor, but it was certain that he was the object of their concern. 

While it was likely that a mixture of the three mentioned reasons and doubtlessly more cemented the couple’s anxiety on his behalf, Yuri hypothesized that maybe the second reason took the spotlight for them. It would, he figured: when Victor and Yuuri had had their first child, Luci, they had been ecstatic; absolutely over the moon about every stage of her existence, -- even the godforsaken morning sickness that had plagued Yuuri -- so, of course, Yuri’s noticeable lack of jubilation would surprise and concern them. 

Acting most-likely with the intention of (in their minds) helping Yuri come to grips with his reality, the couple had been highly vocal about his pregnancy, though Yuri did ask them to try to refrain from mentioning it in the studio should his pupils overhear. Of course, this only invited concerned glances and questions as to why he didn’t want people to know; wasn’t this a good thing? After brushing off their inquiries with vague mutterings about privacy, Yuri made his escape from the conversation topic. With all his years with Victor and Yuuri, though, he should have known that it was better just to be straight with them and effectively bar any follow-up circumstances. He really should have.

But he didn’t. Which was why he found himself there, at their house, going over a maternity scrapbook with Luci sitting behind him and Elliot (her little brother, only seven months old) on his knee. He had been invited under the pretext of dinner, and while he’d done his best to decline, Victor’s stubbornness on the matter had become exhausting and, half an hour later, his hair was being played with by a five-year-old.

“Oh,” Yuuri laughed in a slightly pained way, pointing at a photo in the book, “I remember when this was taken: I had just tried on half of what I owned and nothing fit,” he shook his head ruefully, “I was so annoyed-- I ended up having to go shopping that day just to find something I could comfortably wear.” He paused a second, looking thoughtful, “You’re reaching that stage about now, aren’t you? I remember it happened when I was around the five-month mark.” 

Yuri looked up, having been lost in thought, and needing to mentally replay the comment before he could reply. “Not yet, no.”

“Really?” Victor raised a surprised and incredulous eyebrow; he glanced at Yuri’s midriff, but his view was impeded by little Elliot, playing with the fingers of Yuri’s right hand, having snatched them up immediately. “I thought you looked rather--” 

“Victor,” Yuuri spoke up, shooting his husband a glance that could either be interpreted as sickly sweet or downright dangerous. “Why don’t you check on dinner?” 

Victor looked ruffled but nodded before getting up and leaving the room, shooting the two Yuris a questioning glance over his shoulder. 

“Sorry,” Yuuri turned to the younger, “that was a bit… brusque, even for him; you know he didn’t mean it offensively.” Yuri nodded, shrugging. “So,” Yuuri continued, prompting in Yuri’s silence. “How are you?”

“Fine.”

Yuuri scrutinized him, his gaze almost painfully understanding, “You know,” he began, “you can always talk to us-- to me, if it’s easier; I know Victor can be a bit… excitable, sometimes,” the look with which he regarded Yuri could almost be called beseeching. “We’re always here for you.”

Yuri nodded, his gaze firmly on little Elliot as he sucked joyfully upon Yuri’s fingers.

Yuuri bit his lip, looking like he wanted to say more, but was interrupted: Victor popped his head through the kitchen door. 

“Dinner’s ready!” The Yuris nodded together.

Handing Elliot back to Yuuri and detaching his fingers from the baby’s mouth, Yuri moved to stand, only to find himself pulled into a backbend, tiny hands holding him in place; he’d forgotten that Luci was playing with his hair. 

“Luci, let him up!” Yuuri called, shaking his head with an amused smile on his face as he noticed Yuri’s predicament. Luci giggled and let go, trotting up to her father’s side and passing through to the dining room. Yuri followed, though as he walked by the hall mirror, he paused, taking in his appearance. Luci had braided his hair. 

Yuuri, standing in the doorway, noticed Yuri’s pause. “Yuri?”

Yuri barely heard him. His hair was braided.

Braids had been Otabek’s specialty.*

Whether it had been an elegant updo with dozens of interlocking strands that crisscrossed so intricately it was dizzying to look upon, or a simple, three-strand plait down his back, Otabek had been the master of braiding Yuri’s hair, and had done so time and time again to perfection. If they had had time, Otabek would style Yuri’s hair for competitions, and every day, without fail, braid it for him before bed.

Yuri would never forget the feeling of nimble fingers running through his hair: massaging his scalp, gently detangling the spun-gold strands, and delicately weaving that three-prong pattern with them, always culminating in that same, gentle kiss. 

He could never forget it, no matter how hard he may try.

“Don’t you like the braid?” Yuri snapped back to reality, turning from his reflection to Yuuri’s questioning eyes. “I know it’s kind of messy, but for a five-year-old, it’s pretty good.”

Yuri’s voice was quiet and reserved when he spoke, eyes downcast. “I don’t wear braids.” And, slowly, his hands came up and began unweaving the blond locks, pulling out the plait until his hair hung limply down his back once more.

***

As Yuri left the Katsuki-Nikiforov residence that night, he tried to decline Victor’s offer to drive him home; for the second time that day, Victor’s persistence became so exhausting, Yuri gave in. Yuri normally wouldn’t have been in a position to be offered a ride home, to begin with, but he’d been kidnapped straight from the studio, and, it having been a nice day, he’d walked there. Now, though, he found himself sitting in the passenger seat of Victor’s car, staring vacantly out the window at the scenery speeding by.

“Yuri?” He looked up, “I’m sorry about earlier,” Victor began, biting his lip and looking guiltily ahead, “I wasn’t trying to be rude when I said your clothes didn’t fit: I just assumed that by now you’d be showing, but Yuuri said that it was offensive, and I apologize: I didn’t mean it to be.” 

Yuri’s eyes didn’t stray from the window. “It’s fine.” 

And it was fine: by now, Yuri was accustomed to Victor’s lack of thought before speech; the issue was, though, that he had been right: Yuri _was_ showing.

At a scant 18 weeks pregnant, Yuri had thought that he wouldn’t start looking noticeably, distinguishably pregnant for another few months yet. But, according to his doctor, due to his slim, natural build and continuous athleticism, he should have started showing at month three-- the only thing that had kept him from doing so was the fact that he had been so underweight, and now, with that fixed, he was far rounder than he would have expected.

It was a difficult thing to deal with, -- made especially so since Yuri’s opinion toward his future child was apathetic and detached at best -- that he now had a constant reminder that this was very real, and very much happening. There was really no denying it: he had reached a point where even his baggiest, most oversized sweaters couldn’t entirely hide his growing abdomen.

Which was what he found a few days later, as he stood in his bedroom, trying futilely to coerce a pair of jeans to buttoning. With a final tug, Yuri gave up, slumping down onto his bed; he sighed quietly as he regarded the garment: the zipper only went a few millimeters up and the fabric stretched up in a V, immovably a good few inches apart where it was supposed to be together and secured.

Yuri sighed again, abandoning the article, and instead pulling on a pair of leggings; the waistband dug uncomfortably into his distended abdomen. 

At least it fit though. 

Only leggings and stretch pants were left to him now -- literally nothing else would come up above his hips, and even those things were quickly becoming too tight. 

There was nothing he could do at this point, he supposed; Victor had been right: he had to buy new clothes.

***

Yuri scanned the racks around him, honestly mystified that there were so many options, and feeling more than a little lost. While his stomach was noticeably large, -- and he felt it to be even more so -- all of the options that he could see would be far too big for him. Just as he was about to turn around and go home, resolved to try again another day, a cheerful voice and bouncy ponytail came into view. “Can I help you?” 

Yuri turned, watching as a salesgirl approached; he blinked, “Yes,” he said after a moment, “I’m looking for pants?”

“Okay,” the girl said with a smile, and Yuri read her name tag to be Julie, “come with me.” They walked to the other side of the store, Julie’s pace slow, -- Yuri wondered idly if all of the sales associates were instructed to move slowly so as not to outpace a pregnant waddle (Yuri hadn’t yet reached that stage: he still moved normally, and of that, he was quite glad) -- and as they came to the opposite wall, Yuri was confronted by pairs upon pairs of pants. Turning to him, Julie offered an open smile. “What size are you?” She asked.

“Extra small, normally,” was Yuri’s way of saying he had no clue how maternity sizing worked. 

The girl lead him over to a few racks in front of them, “I don’t know what style of pants you’re looking for; exercise, jeans, formalwear, or anything else, but we have it all, and everything we sell here has a built-in pregnancy panel, so it can adjust as your belly grows.” The girl paused and Yuri realized that she was probably waiting for him to say something.

“I was looking for jeans and leggings mostly.” he said and she nodded, taking that as an acceptable response.

“Okay, we have some jeans over here -- they’re a bit trickier because the legs often swell a bit during pregnancy and you have to find the right fit -- and beside them is a range of leggings and sweatpants. Do you mind my asking about your job?”

“I’m a dance teacher.” Yuri wondered why that was relevant.

“Okay,” Julie said, turning to grab a few things off of the rack, “I have a few options here that would work well for that. The leggings are stretchy, of course,” she smiled, “and again have the tummy panel.” She smiled again and went on. She was so cheerful, Yuri couldn’t help but think. “They’re fairly lightweight so they should work well in a studio, especially during the summer months, and they come in a range of colors and styles, all of which extremely durable and washer/dryer friendly.” Yuri nodded again and allowed the girl to hand him a few pairs of leggings and sweatpants before looking over him with a critical eye and adding a set of jeans to the pile. “We have a fitting room for you to try those on,” she said, “but first do you need any tops?” Yuri honestly hadn’t thought that far into it. “It can never hurt to be prepared.” She gave a happy, little shrug.

“Sure.” Yuri didn’t know what to say, but the girl nodded and guided him to another set of racks a few paces over.

“Here we have some of our more athletic options: tank tops, t-shirts, thin sweaters and the like,” she said, “if you’re a dance teacher I recommend looking at them.”

Under Julie’s watchful eye, helpful suggestions, and tidbits of information, Yuri left the store with several shirts and pairs of pants-- one of them even being jeans. 

The latter item had been a major surprise to Yuri: he’d tried them on in the changing room, as she’d suggested, and found that they fit perfectly. It was after he’d taken them off, however, that he was truly shocked: they were a size medium. 

Medium? He’d gone up three sizes seemingly overnight? What was even more surprising, though, was the fact that they had molded to his body perfectly: his legs and ass fit snugly into the denim and it seemed as though the jeans had been made just for him. He’d known that the legs and other appendages swelled during pregnancy, but he had never thought that they would swell enough for him to go up _three whole sizes._

He let it go, though, and just thanked the fact that he now had clothes he could fit into. One downside to maternity clothing, though, as he later found, was that it was made to advertise his stomach, highlighting it and throwing it into sharp relief against the rest of his slim form. With the new clothes, it was only a matter of time until he would be asked the dreaded question, and, resigned to the fact that they would have to know sooner or later, Yuri went into the studio that day, prepared to make the announcement to his students.

Yuri sighed as he entered his studio for his last class of the day; his head was pounding and he was not eager to spend another hour and a half teaching, even if it was his Senior Pointe class. 

The class, as a rule, was a fairly easy one to deal with: no energetic, bouncing-off-the-walls, little kids, and no temper tantrums like the ones he got from his junior ballet class-- those always gave him headaches. No, Senior Pointe was, not more relaxed, for it was a very intense class, but he didn’t have to play mediator and behavior management specialist: the students were driven, focused, and, mostly, receptive to his corrections-- eager to improve their craft.

Which was why, he thought, as he glanced at the clock, he was surprised that with five minutes until class began, no one was in the studio warming up. With the idea of reminding his students that were doubtlessly congregated in the locker room from which stemmed the individual boys’ and girls’ changing rooms, that it was nearly time to start, Yuri left his studio, making his way down the hall. 

Yuri was about to poke his head into the locker room and deliver his message when he stopped, hearing his name spoken aloud from the inside.

“I heard his husband left him.” A voice said,

“Really?” Inquired another,

“Yeah,” it was the former voice, “a few weeks ago, I overheard Mr. Katsuki and Mr. Nikiforov saying that they were separated.”

“Is that true?” A third, female, voice broke in. “It doesn’t sound like it; why would they separate? They were great together.”

“I don’t know,” voice number one again, and Yuri could almost hear the shrug its words were doubtlessly accompanied by. “He’s gotten kinda fat lately; maybe that’s it.”

“That’s ridiculous,” the third voice -- Yuri thought it might be Ekaterina -- said scornfully, “couples don’t separate just because someone gains a little weight-- and I don’t think he has; Yuri’s always been incredibly thin and really muscular; since he stopped skating it would make sense if he lost a bit of that, now he’s not bound by those psycho diets and training routines.”

“It’s more than that though:” it was voice number one again, “he’s really gotten fat-- have you seen him? Even under those bulky sweaters he wears, you can tell he’s gained a lot of weight.”

“Alexei, will you stop with that?” Ekaterina sounded annoyed, “Just leave him alone, will you? Even if he _is_ a little rounder than before, who cares? It’s his business and it’s not like it interferes with him being able to do his job-- just let it be.”

“Okay, okay,” Alexei said, “I’m just saying: if I was Otabek, I wouldn’t want to be stuck with someone who let themself go like that either-- it’s so unattractive.” 

Yuri could hear Ekaterina begin to say something, sounding angry, but chose that moment to interrupt her, stepping into the locker room. 

Sure enough, all of his students were in there, some of them seated in stretches, others on their phones or standing, but all froze when he appeared; looking up at him, wide-eyed and fearful, the common thought was obvious: _how much did he hear?_

“Two minutes until class starts.” Yuri’s voice was, in its custom, devoid of emotion (or any sign of human life, Victor had once teased in a pitiful attempt at levity, before getting a sharp glare from Yuuri and mumbling an apology), but, going by the fear in the dancers’ eyes, one would think that Yuri was livid. Perhaps his previous, spit-fire personality had conditioned them to fear him.

As he re-entered his studio, Yuri paused a moment, glancing at himself in the mirror. The signature oversized sweater was in place, and beneath it, he knew, was a set of the new exercise clothing he’d acquired not too long ago. 

Regarding his reflection, and what he planned to do in just a few minutes, Yuri removed the sweater, placing it on the floor next to his phone and the speaker at the front of the room, before the mirrored wall. 

Slowly, timid students began to file in, eyes downcast and looking mortified-- Alexei at the very back of the procession. They moved to their places and began to stretch, waiting for Yuri to turn on the music that played in the background while they warmed up. Instead, Yuri spoke.

“I have an announcement to make,” he said at length, and immediately twelve heads shot up to look at him, every face anxious. “I tell you this only because it will doubtlessly affect the course of our lessons, and because you’re bound to notice eventually,” he continued and made eye contact with Alexei, stretching from his spot in the front line. The boy looked terrified. “I’m pregnant.” 

The room was deathly still for a moment: no one moved, and Yuri watched as guilt flashed across Alexei’s face.

“That’s wonderful!” Ekaterina broke the silence, smiling widely, her eyes sparkling. “You must be thrilled!” 

“How far along are you?” Another girl asked, smiling too.

“Nineteen weeks.” Was Yuri’s reply.

“Oh, that’s so exciting!” She squealed, and Yuri pressed his lips into a firm line, forcing a small nod.

“Do you know if it’s a girl or a boy yet?” Ekaterina asked, “They can normally find out at sixteen weeks, right?” She got a few odd looks from other classmates at the information, “My sister’s three,” she said by way of explanation, shrugging, “I remember a lot of it.”

A few people nodded, before turning to Yuri, every eye on him, waiting for an answer.

“It’s a girl.” 

There was a collective cry of celebration, coupled with a few eye-rolls from the males of the class, and Yuri’s stomach tightened as he was bombarded with congratulations and joyful comments.

“Yes, well, we need to start stretching,” he said, effectively putting an abrupt end to the merrymaking. Why they were so excited, he had no idea. “We have a lot of work to do today,” Yuri continued, “today will be a technical class focusing on flexibility.” 

There was a collective groan; the subject was dropped; music was put on, and the class continued stretching.

***

“Straighten that knee-- good, now hold that for a count of three… okay, bring it down.” Ekaterina released her Scorpion hold gracefully, bringing her right leg down in a controlled arch, even though Yuri knew it had to be burning from how long it had been held aloft.

At the tail end of their flexibility intensive, the Senior Pointe class was working on their [Scorpion position](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3jEicZ0F2L0) \-- one of the most demanding turn positions in ballet and one Yuri had originally learned as the [Biellmann](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=w2XcvbBPhmY&feature=youtu.be) in skating. 

Yuri had noticed that during the class’s recent routines, many of the students’ techniques had been lacking, and he could see the glaringly obvious strain in the faces of his dancers whenever they had encountered the more flexibility-oriented aspects of their numbers. As he walked around the room now, Yuri was pleased to see that most of his students were hitting the move with little difficulty, his only comment to them being that they need to relax their shoulders or shift the weight on their supporting foot; as his eyes landed on Alexei, though, he was met with a very different sight.

Alexei had never been very flexible-- an odd hindrance of a trait for a ballet dancer to have. He worked hard though, and often what he lacked in flexibility he made up for in power and determination. Yuri had found him to be much like Otabek in that way, especially with (until a few hours ago) his constant courtesy and kindness. In the past, Yuri had regarded him as Otabek’s mini-me, thinking them similar in both their physical limitations and achievements, and in their kind, genuinely good dispositions. Now, he wasn’t so sure.

“Alexei,” the boy flinched, releasing his pose and turning to Yuri, biting his lip. Before today, Yuri might’ve found the red flush on his face -- so like Otabek’s while stretching -- endearing, but now he found it hard to believe that the boy had much in common with Otabek after all, his words from this morning so vastly different than anything Otabek would ever say. “Your foot was barely parallel to your head-- with that pose, you could be in one of my novice classes. Let me see it again, and this time keep your core tight and your back closed; your leg needs to be able to come all the way up-- you can’t just fake it with your back twisted into a pretzel.” The boy nodded, face flaring red at the remonstrance, and swept his leg back through first position in a tendu, before intercepting it with his hand and pulling it up into the pose. His face was red with effort, and, “Breathe,” Yuri reminded him, before stepping up to him to push lightly on his stomach -- reminding him to engage his core -- and putting a hand under the knee of his free leg, urging it up. 

Stepping back from him, Yuri watched as Alexei held the pose for another three counts, before falling quickly (clumsily) out of it. Yuri pursed his lips: “If you want to get onto the Bolshoi Ballet, as I know you do, you’ll need to improve on that; stretch and practice the sweep through first up to your head twice a day for the next week and we’ll see how you do next Tuesday. In the meantime… Ekaterina! Come over here and demonstrate the proper Scorpion position and its dismount.” 

Ekaterina looked up, surprised, but nodded, leaving her place in the center of the room working on Scorpion turns (a task Yuri had assigned his most advanced dancers), and made her way over to the barre at which Yuri and Alexei stood. At a nod from Yuri, she slowly swept her right foot back, catching it and -- excruciatingly slowly, poor girl -- raising it over her head until it was straight and her back arched enough that her nose was in danger of brushing the back of her knee. 

“See how tight her core is?” Yuri asked Alexei, who nodded, biting the inside of his cheek and looking as if he was making an effort so as not to look annoyed at being demonstrated to-- normally, he was the one demonstrating. “You can release it now,” Yuri told Ekaterina, and she delicately relieved her leg and brought it down, pointed, straight, and purposely slowly. “Good,” Yuri told her, “go work on cool down.” She nodded and was gone. 

After having Alexei run the pose a few more times, Yuri dismissed him and the rest of the class; he was about to leave too, two signatures away from being done with his day’s paperwork at the front desk, when Victor approached him.

“You told your class today,” he stated it as a fact, for it was, but there was a questioning air to it.

Yuri nodded, “They were bound to notice eventually.”

Victor hesitated, looking as if he wanted to say something else but didn’t quite know how to word it; Yuri’s pen flashed across the page and he set the paper aside: he was done. 

“Why didn’t you tell us that it’s a girl?” Victor’s voice was carefully measured, no accusation and no hurt to it, but as hard as he tried, the concern slipped through.

Yuri shrugged. “It didn’t come up.” He stood, grabbing his bag and slinging it over his shoulder.

Victor bit his lip, “Yuri,” he began, again in that urgent, yet unsure manor, “you can always talk to us -- Yuuri and I --; we’re always here for you.” Yuri nodded, eyes on the pocket of his bag, within which his hand searched for his keys. “You know that, right? You’re family; we want to help you-- in any way you need.” Yuri nodded again, finally locating his keys and moving to leave. “Yuri--”

“I know,” Yuri said it quietly, his eyes not on Victor’s but straight ahead. He took a breath, “I’ll see you tomorrow.” 

Victor bit his lip, but nodded, watching him go. “Bye.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did the scene at the pediatrician's break your heart? Just curious; it did mine :(
> 
> Let me know what you think!
> 
> * Just so it's known, the braid thing was the idea of [@elloimfinest_ttd](https://www.wattpad.com/user/elloimfinest_ttd) on Wattpad, where this book was originally (and is continuously) posted, and she graciously let me incorporate it into the story!
> 
> As always, comments and kudos are greatly appreciated! ♥
> 
> **Next update on JUNE 26TH**


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I've said it before, and I'll say it again: I fucking _hate_ formatting in HTML. (And, _yes,_ I had to format in HTML to italicize that.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last Chapter Recap: Victor and Yuuri try to no avail to get Yuri to connect with the baby, and Yuri gets an unpleasant reminder that braids are significant and sad for him. Yuri is forced to purchase some maternity clothes and after a mean student remarks on Yuri being 'fat', Yuri tells his dance students that he's pregnant. At the very end, we find out that the baby is a girl.

“It’s been a while.” That was what Yuri had said when he’d met Otabek at the altar. It had been tiny, tear-choked, and barely intelligible through the smile so large it had threatened to split his face in half, but Otabek, as he always did, heard Yuri.

“Never again.”

His meaning couldn’t have been clearer, even if he’d been yelling it at the top of his lungs, even if his face had been characteristically stoic and his voice steady instead of his words nothing more than the gentlest of whispers and the softest of smiles resting on his features.

_Never again will we be apart: never again will we be separated: never again will we sleep alone._

That was what Otabek had meant and Yuri had heard it clear as day, nodding after his throat closed up and tears ran tracks down his cheeks because he was too happy _not_ to cry. 

He had believed it too, wholeheartedly, swear-on-both-of-their-lives believed it. 

And, for some reason, that was what Yuri was thinking about at 12:37 am as he stared at the wall, unable to shut off the circular whirring of his mind.

He really should’ve been asleep by now: he had to be up at six again tomorrow -- today, really -- and nowadays he was exhausted just about all of the time; getting less sleep wouldn’t help that.

Yuri rolled over, shifting his weight as he repositioned onto his left side. He was met with cold, empty sheets as he rested on the mattress, facing the side of the bed that hadn’t been slept in in 91 -- 92, now -- days. Yuri shut his eyes, blocking out the whispering darkness of the bedroom.

Yuri couldn’t sleep.

***

Yuri had been right: he was _exhausted_ the next day, and by the time he finished with his rescheduled (thanks to the rink screwing up) Learn-To-Skate class at 8:15, he felt more than inclined to just curl up with Potya and go back to bed. Even if he’d been able to do that, though, -- for he found that insomnia was quickly becoming well-known to him -- he couldn’t: he had to meet Otabek in forty-five minutes.

Yuri was late, -- having had to wait with a child for fifteen minutes after class before their mother collected them -- walking into the cafe at 9:07 and automatically glancing toward the table Otabek always occupied. He wasn’t there. 

Yuri checked the time on his phone. 

_9:08_  
Otabek was never late, in fact, he was never even on time: he always arrived early: before Yuri. Something must have hindered his progress to the coffee shop.

Yuri took his place at their usual little table in the corner of the cafe, planning on using the extra time to work on his lesson plan for his Senior Pointe class. The class had been invited to audition for the Mariinsky Ballet’s training academy, -- a very prestigious school -- and Yuri had a lot to cover with them before the call next week. He had just enough time to take out his phone, though, before the little bell above the door tinkled, and Otabek stepped into the shop.

“Look, Isaac,” he was saying, his phone pressed to his ear and distracted. “I need to go-- just, can you at least _try_ to fix it?... It’s been broken for weeks...-- well then call a _different_ plumber.” He sighed, before looking up and seeing Yuri. “I’ve got to go; I’ll call you back.” Otabek said hastily into the speaker before hanging up and making his way to the table. “Sorry I’m late,” he said as soon as he sat down, “I lost track of time.”

Yuri nodded, and, by the psychic power they seemed to possess to know when their presence was unnecessary, a waitress came over.

“Everything okay?” She asked Otabek, smiling, as she approached the table before glancing back toward the door, “That didn’t sound like a fun conversation.” 

Otabek nodded, “I’m fine.”

“You mentioned a plumber? I know one if you’re on the market.” The girl lightly set a hand on Otabek’s upper arm. 

The term was _in_ the market. Not _on._

“It’s nothing.” Otabek’s voice was quiet, but firm, “My water’s been out for a few days; no big deal.” 

She nodded sympathetically, “That happened to me once -- I had to shower at my friend’s place for over a week! Of course, my water still worked; it was only cold, but, I swear, if the water isn’t hot, I refuse to get in it!” She laughed airily, “I can give you the number if you want-- the plumber’s, of course.” 

Somehow Yuri doubted that, should Otabek accept the offer, he would be receiving the plumber’s number at all, more-likely was the instance that he’d receive the digits of a slim, pretty brunette instead. 

“I’m okay, thanks,” Otabek replied, monosyllabia his strong suit, as it always was. “Can we put in our drink orders? It’s humid outside and we have some business to attend to.” 

“Oh,” the waitress seemed unruffled, taking the hint and removing her hand from Otabek’s arm. “Of course-- let me just write them down for you.” The girl took the blatant rejection gracefully, seamlessly going back to her job. Efficient and helpful as she might have been, though, Yuri couldn’t quite shake the bitter taste in his mouth when she came near.

***

It was nearing the end of the meeting -- there were only a few more things to discuss that day -- when Yuri excused himself to use the bathroom. He’d been doing that more often lately: according to his most recent doctor’s appointment, it was because he was ‘carrying low’-- something that he’d been told would make the rest of his pregnancy exponentially harder. Great.

Yuri’s vision swayed as he stood from his chair and he caught the side of the table to help steady himself. Play it off as he may try, though, Otabek caught the movement immediately and reached out instinctively to steady Yuri. Catching himself just in time, he withdrew his hand and surveyed Yuri with a glint of concern in his eye instead.

“You okay?”

Yuri nodded. “Fine.”

***

Tuesday was worse than Yuri had expected, Yuri having, again, gotten little rest the night before. Yuri had been roused from sleep before his alarm that morning and had all but thrown himself onto the bathroom floor before the toilet, the nausea that had long since receded deciding to come back for a most unwanted encore. By the time he was able to rise, he felt half-dead, and the prospect of having to face hours of dance class -- not to mention the fact that everyone in Senior Pointe was buzzing with energy about tomorrow’s audition and were made that much harder to teach -- was not an inviting one.

Yuri’s vision blurred as he stepped into the studio, the light bouncing off the floor to ceiling mirrors making spots dance before his eyes. His morning classes had proven true to his morning’s prediction: they had been hell: Yuri had dragged himself from the rink, to the attached gym, to the studio, and by the time afternoon arrived and Senior Pointe began warming up, he could feel the last dregs of his energy slip away.

As Yuri lead the class through warm-ups, he lengthened the floor portion considerably, explaining that the class most-likely wouldn’t be able to use a barre to stretch at tomorrow’s audition, so they’d have to achieve what they normally would on the barre either standing or on the floor. It was true, though Yuri’s ability to justifiably sit while working was a factor in the decision.

As they finished the warm-ups at last, Yuri’s vision tilted as he stood from the floor; he placed a hand on the barre behind him to steady himself. This action was lost on the class, but Ekaterina, whose place in the warmup was dead center of the front line, caught it.

“You okay?” She asked, quietly enough that it wasn’t noticeable to the majority of the students, who were still slowly rolling up from the ground.

“Fine.” Yuri returned, before clapping his hands to draw the class to attention. 

***

In hindsight, today’s lesson plan had been a terrible idea, Yuri mused: or at least, he amended, it was a terrible idea for today. 

Since tomorrow’s auditions would consist majorly of a Mariinsky choreographer teaching the dancers a new routine on the spot and seeing how quickly and how well they could pick it up, Yuri had long ago decided that today’s class would essentially be the same thing: Yuri would teach short combinations and have his students perform them individually, in groups, different pieces scattered in between to test their memories. Now, however, he was not eager to dance the pieces himself. But he knew, resignedly, he’d have to if he wanted to give his students the best chance he could for the audition. 

As Yuri began the first piece, a slow, technically-challenging number, he could feel the lag in his limbs, but, knowing that no one other than Lilia Baranovskya could notice, ignored it, secure in the knowledge that he’d won competitions feeling worse.

As Yuri turned, his stomach did as well, and he fought to keep the newly reappeared nausea at bay. He’d skipped breakfast that morning in hopes of achieving said end, but apparently his efforts had been futile, for he now felt moments away from throwing up. 

Yuri finished the first piece, and, giving a quick, nonverbal hand gesture for his students to parrot him, took a long, slow draught from his water bottle. He kept his breaths steady and even, and, once his students were halfway through their assigned piece, he felt safe enough to walk through them, making corrections, without stopping dead and puking on the polished wood floor.

Yuri was deeply worried about his two demonstrations to go, but knew at least that his face betrayed nothing of either his discomfort or his apprehension. 

As he started the second piece, he was relieved when his stomach didn’t protest too much about him dancing, and, even when the turns came and the nausea ratcheted up a notch, he was able to finish the choreography gracefully. His students remained none the wiser.

As Yuri began his third and final demonstrative piece, he could feel his body slowing down, rebelling against the motion: his head pounded with every step he took, and the dizziness fogging his brain made a mess of his alignment. The pointe shoes he wore chafed against overly-sensitive skin and Yuri was regretting saving the most complicated piece for last. Still though, as he moved he felt light, and it was almost as if he was watching someone dance instead of dancing himself. He moved through the air at a lower concentration of gravity, each jete reinforcing that feeling of weightlessness. 

As he turned his final combination, Yuri squinted at the light being reflected off the mirrors, throwing cloudy smudges into his vision. Yuri began his Scorpion turn combination and gritted his teeth; as he raised his leg and arched his back so his nose was a close parallel to his knee, something twinged. And then, something broke.

Yuri fell from his turn, leg retracting and body curling in on itself as he hit the floor, pain flaring just beneath his ribs. His eyes squeezed shut and his hands flew to the upper right of his abdomen, clutching at it; it felt as if he were being stabbed. Around him, a flurry of voices chorused, and some part of his brain knew that he must’ve cried out, but nothing registered now. Yuri remained unresponsive on the ground, mind clouded with pain.

***

Yuri laid in the hospital bed, head simultaneously swimming and pounding, having a very hard time focusing as he was spoken to.

“--overexerted yourself, what were you thinking?”

“I’m fine,” Yuri mumbled, fluorescent light burning into his eyes as he turned to Yuuri. “I need to get back to class--”

“You’re not going anywhere,” Victor’s voice was firm from where he stood next to his husband, “not until we find out what’s wrong.”

“I’m fine,” Yuri repeated, blinking in an attempt to un-blur his vision, ignoring how his voice wavered, “I just haven’t eaten today: I had a sugar crash, no big deal.”

“You haven’t eaten today?” Yuuri’s voice was sharp and Yuri internally winced, “Yuri, I thought you finally got back up to weight, what were you thinking?”

Yuri shook his head, exhaustion settling deep into his bones. It was another reason he needed to get out of bed and get back to class: if he didn’t get up soon, he probably wouldn’t be able to. “I threw up all morning,” he muttered, tired, and head aching, “I couldn’t keep anything down and couldn’t risk something happening in class.”

Both Yuuri and Victor raised their eyebrows, glancing at each other ironically. 

Yuri’s abdomen started doing that stabbing thing again, though to a lesser degree than the first time, and he moved his hands to it, gritting his teeth and closing his eyes as he tried to soothe the pain. Once it had receded and he was able to open his eyes once more, Yuuri and Victor were looking appropriately mollified and left their interrogation unfinished: Yuuri merely put a hand on Yuri’s shoulder and offered a sympathetic smile.

“Try to rest,” he murmured, “the doctor will be back soon and he’ll let us know what’s going on; I’m sure it’ll be alright.”

“But for now,” Victor added, still stern; but this time instead of scolding, his voice was warm, “you are absolutely not going back to the studio, so relax.” 

The prospect of leaving his dancers unprepared for tomorrow’s audition was still a stressful one for Yuri, but he was exhausted, and maybe with some sleep, he’d be able to function better once the doctor cleared him and let him go back to class. It was a while yet before the doctor had said that the tests would be ready, and after that, they’d let him go back to dance. 

With a weak nod, Yuri let himself shut his eyes.

***

Yuri hadn’t slept much, insomnia, his clingy friend, having traveled with him to the patient room and remaining at his bedside, not allowing him to get in more than fifteen minutes of disrupted rest before Yuri gave up the attempts and just laid in bed, staring at the juncture where ceiling met wall and attempting to ward off the sporadic pains in his abdomen. 

The doctor hadn’t returned yet and it had been over an hour-- it was only twenty-five minutes until Senior Pointe would be dismissed for the day and Yuri felt anxious: he _needed_ to get back to them; they had a major audition tomorrow and they couldn’t be distracted by their teacher falling apart at the seams. 

There was a noise from the doorway and Yuri looked toward it, hoping to see the man in the lab coat who had taken his blood, ready to tell him that he was fine and could go back to the studio. 

It wasn’t the doctor: Yuuri looked nervous, hovering in the doorway and conversing under his breath with Victor, an air of tension and anxiety about them.

“What?” Yuri asked, more groggily than he would’ve thought after his failure to sleep, and Yuuri jumped.

“I thought you were asleep.” He said, giving Victor a look that seemed to decide something before the latter left and the former entered the room, coming to Yuri’s bedside.

“I couldn’t,” Yuri said, gingerly scooting up in bed so he could speak to Yuuri more easily; there was a major bruise on his hip and thigh from where he’d fallen on them. “What’s wrong? Have the test results come back yet?”

Yuuri shook his head, “No…”

“Then why are you so worried?” Yuri was struggling to understand, brain feeling foggy, “Are Luci and Elliot okay?”

Yuuri nodded quickly, “Yeah, they’re fine. It’s just--” he broke off, sighing, “how are you feeling?” He asked instead, and Yuri shrugged weakly.

“I’m fine,” he firmly ignored the headache biting at his temples. “What’s wrong?”

Yuuri sighed again, “Otabek’s here.” He said, wincing as he did, “He’s your emergency contact so the hospital called him before Vitya and I could tell them not to. He’s really worried; he wants to see you…”

“Oh,” Yuri hadn’t been expecting that.

“Yeah.” Yuuri replied heavily, “Do you want us to tell him to go? It would be fine: the hospital wouldn’t care as long as Vitya and I are here.” 

Yuri hesitated: he knew how much Otabek worried on the best days… “It’s okay,” he said after a pause, “you can let him in.”

Yuuri nodded slowly, “Are you sure? You’re feeling up to it? I don’t want to make anything worse; you don’t have to see him if you don’t want to.”

Yuri shook his head, reminding himself of the headache throbbing throughout his skull. “I’m fine. He has a right to be here: it is his child, of course he’s worried about it.”

Yuuri pursed his lips but nodded, “I’ll go tell Vitya to bring him up; they’re in the waiting room right now.” Yuri nodded and watched as Yuuri left, “And, Yuri?” He turned back, his every appearance that of a man acting on a spur-of-the-moment decision. “He hasn’t mentioned the baby once.”

***

Otabek’s knee bounced continuously as he sat in the sticky, vinyl chair; his elbows rested on his knees (and were also bouncing, due to that) with his fingers laced in the space between them, head bowed. Ever since he’d gotten that call from the hospital, his heart had been racing and it had yet to slow down. It wouldn’t until he saw Yuri and decided with his own eyes that he was alright.

God, how had he let this happen? He’d been with him two days ago; he’d known he hadn’t seemed right then, but, and Otabek wanted to punch himself, he hadn’t done _anything._ This was his fault. 

The hospital had said that Yuri’d collapsed? That he’d been clutching at his abdomen in pain before he passed out? Was he okay? Was him passing out a fluke like low blood sugar or something? 

No, it wouldn’t be; Otabek shook the suggestion from his head. If it had been low blood sugar or dehydration or something, then Yuri’s abdomen wouldn’t have been in pain and he would’ve been up in seconds-- he’d fainted once or twice before from overtraining and that had always been the case. It had taken a while to revive him, though, Otabek had been -- grudgingly -- told by Victor. Maybe stress, then? 

Just the thought made him feel ill: if it was stress, it was _his fault._ Honestly, he was already blaming himself for this whole thing anyway, but, God, if he had been the direct cause, he didn’t know what he would do. He wouldn’t be able to look himself in the mirror if he had hurt Yuri. 

_Again._ A nasty little voice in his brain provided. Hurt Yuri _again,_ because he’d already hurt him, badly, and Otabek would never stop hating himself for that. God, what was he going to _do?_

“Vitya?” Otabek’s head snapped up and he rose from his seat, despite it not having been his name called. Yuuri stood a few paces away, glancing anxiously between Victor and Otabek, biting his lip. “He said okay,” Yuuri addressed Victor, “you can bring him in.”

Victor’s eye twitched but he nodded, striding to Yuuri’s side from where he’d stood at the same second as Otabek had, giving a quick jerk of the head for Otabek to follow, not even looking at him. Not that Otabek blamed him. 

Otabek followed the couple at a trot, his pulse pounding in his ears; he wouldn’t be able to relax until he knew Yuri was okay, probably not even then. As they rounded a corner and Yuuri, walking slightly ahead of the other two, disappeared into a room, Victor turned around, stopping dead and leveling Otabek with a downright dangerous glare.

“I have so much to say to you,” he said, his voice deadly quiet, the dark look in his normally bright eyes promising pain. “But for Yuri’s sake, I’ll hold my tongue.” He looked as though he was about to contradict that statement now, though. “It’s unfathomable to me that you would cheat. From what I’d seen of you two together, it was a shock, to say the least. 

“I never thought that _you_ of all people would turn out to do _that._ You have no idea what you’ve done to him,” Victor snarled, “how much you’ve hurt him. He never smiles anymore, never shows any type of emotion-- he’s depressed, Otabek. He finally managed to crawl out of that hole and you shoved him right back into it. _You_ did that. When you married him, I thought you were perfect for each other,” he let out a bitter, venomous laugh, “Only now can I see how wrong I was.” His pupils widened and his stance, towering over Otabek at 6’2, grew menacing. “But, trust me, I will _never_ make that mistake again.

“Now, for whatever reason, Yuri is still letting you within six feet of him, but I’m warning you,” and oh, did it sound like a warning, “if you go in there and upset him, confuse him, break him _further,_ I will personally make sure that you never see him _or_ the child again.” He was leaning dangerously close to Otabek, his fists curled and shaking with the effort it was presumably taking for him _not_ to hit Otabek. Otabek really didn’t blame him. He was right about all of that: this situation was entirely Otabek’s fault, but--

“I’m going to go see Yuri.” He said, sidestepping Victor’s furious gaze and walking toward the room Yuuri had disappeared into. His voice was firm but barely-contained anger resided within it nonetheless-- he knew he shouldn’t be angry, knew he deserved everything Victor hurled at him and more, but he was still so damn _angry_ at this situation; it was eating him alive.

Otabek stepped into the room, his heart clenching as he saw Yuri; pale, small, and terribly fragile-looking in bed, Yuri looked completely exhausted, and, as recently-always, conveyed no emotion at all. Otabek was at his bedside before he knew he’d even moved, barely stopping himself from taking Yuri’s hand between his own and kissing him on the forehead. 

“How are you?” He asked, “The hospital called, they said you passed out?”

Yuri nodded wearily, “I’m fine.” His voice was so quiet, he looked so tired--

“Do they know what happened?” Otabek asked, careful to keep his tone easy and slow, not wanting to overwhelm the frail figure before him. 

Yuri shook his head, the very motion slow and fatigued, “They’re running some tests.”

Otabek nodded, “Yuri,” he began, anxiety thrumming through his veins about how what he was about to say would sound, “I’m worried about what this is doing to you. The separation,” he clarified when Yuri didn’t seem to have grasped his meaning, looking almost dazed, “You’re under so much stress right now--”

“Stress didn’t cause this,” Yuri said, but his voice was still soft and weary, like he was barely awake, “the doctor said--”

“I know,” Otabek interrupted, still gently and calmly, though with a hint of a plea seeping into his voice, “but dealing with divorce is hard at the best of times, and now…” He trailed off, “I don’t want you to get hurt.” He said at last, “Just until the baby’s born, could we postpone the separation?” Otabek could feel Victor’s glare burning holes in the back of his head, but he didn’t care: this was too important.

“I’m fine, Otabek,” Yuri said again, “there’s nothing wrong with me.”

Otabek nodded, “I know that but--” he gazed at him beseechingly, “Please, Yuri? Just for a few months,”

Yuri looked at him for a long moment before, finally, “Okay.” His voice was soft, and he looked so completely drained.

Otabek gave a tiny smile, and it took everything he had in that moment not to kiss Yuri. “Thank you.”

A knock sounded and four heads turned to the doorway; a man in a white lab coat stood there, smiling at everyone and flipping through a clipboard.

“Plisetsky?” He asked, and,

“Yes.” Victor, Yuuri, and Otabek had all responded before Yuri’d even had a chance to open his mouth.

The doctor chuckled, “We’ve got your blood work back,” he said, before sobering a bit.

“It’s just low blood sugar, right?” Victor asked, and Otabek’s heart sank. It wasn’t: Otabek knew that. Low blood sugar, in any other situation, would make sense, but with the pain in Yuri’s abdomen and how long he’d taken to revive, Otabek suspected something different entirely. 

Ever since finding out that Yuri was pregnant, Otabek had been learning about it: how it would affect him, how to combat some of the symptoms, how possible complications could arise; the list went on and on. Ever since learning that Yuri had collapsed, Otabek had been racking his brain trying to find some benign reason for it. The results he got were worrying, to say the least. 

There were so many conditions that Yuri could have, going by the flag symptom that was the pain in his abdomen. It came with many illnesses: Eclampsia, issues with his liver or gallbladder, Gestational Hypertension; it scared Otabek deeply that something might be wrong with Yuri.

“I’m afraid not,” the doctor said, giving him a kind smile, “Mr. Plisetsky, Yuri, you display all of the symptoms of [Preeclampsia ](https://www.mayoclinic.org/diseases-conditions/preeclampsia/symptoms-causes/syc-20355745).” Both Yuuri and Otabek gasped while Victor just looked blank. Yuri hadn’t moved. 

Yuuri turned to look at Otabek, obviously surprised that he understood the meaning and connotations of the term as well.

“What’s that?” Victor spoke, looking worried, “Is it dangerous?”

The doctor tilted his head. “It can be,” he said finally, “if left untreated it can lead to [ placental abruption ](https://www.google.com/search?q=placental+abruption&rlz=1C1CHBF_enUS858US858&oq=placental+a&aqs=chrome.0.0j69i57j0j46j0l4.2971j0j7&sourceid=chrome&ie=UTF-8), or even be fatal.” Victor paled. “When caught and dealt with, as we have and will do, the risk decreases significantly, and, while difficult, Preeclampsia is entirely manageable.”

“Can you cure it?” Victor asked, his face growing steadily more anxious. Otabek winced at the question.

“The only cure is to give birth, I’m afraid,” the doctor looked sympathetic, “and even then the symptoms can last for 1-6 weeks afterward.”

“What exactly is this?” Victor asked, “You mentioned symptoms? What are they?”

“Preeclampsia is a pregnancy-induced high blood pressure disorder,” the doctor explained, “it’s categorized by increased swelling in the legs, hands, and feet, and excess protein in the urine. The more common symptoms include severe headaches, dizziness and fainting spells, shortness of breath, nausea, fatigue, sensitivity to bright light, changes to vision, and abdominal pain in the upper right quarter, like you described, Yuri.” 

“Is Yuri’s case severe or mild?” Otabek asked, speaking for the first time since the doctor had entered the room, “Severe, right? Since he had the pain in his abdomen?”

The doctor regarded him with an intrigued, mildly impressed look while Victor glared suspicious daggers at the back of Otabek’s head. 

“Severe, yes,” the doctor confirmed and there was a sinking feeling in Otabek’s gut: that was very much _not_ good. The doctor sighed, “which brings me to some more difficult news.”

 _“More_ difficult?!” Victor looked panicked and Yuuri, temporarily disregarding his (again, totally deserved) loathing of Otabek, shot him a glance. 

“I’m afraid so,” the doctor said, “if your case was mild, Yuri,” he was speaking directly to him now, “we would be able to treat it with increased rest and more frequent check-ups in addition to changes to your diet to include more protein. But since it’s severe,” Otabek and Yuuri looked at each other, dread unfurling icy tendrils within both, “the safest treatment plan is to deliver.”

Yuri was very white.

“We’ve delivered successfully at 24 weeks before,” the doctor continued, “there would be some time spent in the NICU for the baby but it would be much safer for you to give birth now. Normally I wouldn’t suggest this course of treatment so early on, but since your case is severe, I believe that it’s the best option available.”

“No,” Yuri’s voice was tiny, barely audible, “she’s too small,” his hands made their way to the bump in the covers that was Yuri’s swollen abdomen, resting over it protectively.

“I understand your hesitation,” the doctor said with a kind smile, “but this is the safest possible treatment plan.”

“No,” Yuri looked terrified, “you said there were options; what are they?”

“Yuri,” Victor’s voice was gentle, pleading, “it’ll be okay, calm down, let’s hear the doctor out--”

“No. Every day she stays inside she’s safer. I can deal with the symptoms; I won’t let her go until she’s old enough.” Yuri’s voice was stronger now, but he was still very pale. “I won’t do it: I’m not delivering until it’s safe.”

“Yuri,” the doctor said gently, kindly, “I realize how scary this is for you, but the best option for your health is to deliver.”

“No!” There were tears in Yuri’s eyes, “I won’t let you do it. I can take the pain, I can handle it. What do I have to do?”

The doctor sighed again, sizing Yuri up, before, “37 weeks,” he said after a long, loaded pause, “37 weeks is considered full-term-- will you consent to deliver then?” Yuri nodded. “Fine.” He said, “Now, I still have several reservations about this, so I’ll ask that you implement some changes in your lifestyle to make this as easy as possible on you.” Yuri nodded and the doctor continued, “You said that you’re a dance teacher and a figure skating instructor?”

“Yes?”

“No more skating.” 

Yuri looked stunned, “But--”

“No.” The doctor’s voice was firm: he was immovable on this. “Should you have a fainting spell on the ice, the consequences could be disastrous, not to mention that with the difficulty of an adjusted center of gravity while skating, it would be easy to slip and fall, and we don’t want that.”

Yuri sighed, nodded.

“Good.” The doctor said, before moving on through his clipboard, “You can remain an instructor for dance, providing that you don’t demonstrate yourself and sit while you teach, or at least at intervals.” Again, a defeated sigh and a nod. “The last things I’ll request of you are that you don’t drive,” he said and Yuri looked up,

“What?”

The doctor nodded, “Again I say, a fainting spell while on the road could be catastrophic, and, for fear of anything similar to that around the house, I ask if you live alone.”

Yuri nodded hesitantly, “I do.”

“You don’t.” replied the doctor. 

_What?_

“Pregnancy is hard enough as it is and Preeclampsia is difficult; the conditions for you delaying giving birth stand: you cannot live alone.”

“Well,” Victor began, glancing to Yuuri for confirmation, “You could stay with us, Yuri: we could convert the guest room--” 

Yuri shook his head. “I’m not living with you,” he began, before looking back to the doctor, “Is there nothing I can do?”

He shook his head, “You’re going to need a support system,” and when Victor and Yuuri began to speak, “a _live-in_ support system.” 

Yuri sighed, looking past exhausted. “I don’t know,” he said, “how I could do that. There’s no one--” he stopped, taking in a small breath before turning to face Otabek. 

“Yuri--” Victor began, his face darkening, 

Yuri looked to Otabek still, completely ignoring Victor, and made as if to speak, but no sound came out. “Would you,” he began, trailing off into a heavy silence where he seemed to be thinking something over, breath rather shallow. “Is there any way--” He tried again, looking at Otabek still, “How long does your lease extend?” He asked instead.

Otabek knew exactly where he was going with this, “I can either extend it by three months or move out within two weeks.” Otabek replied, truthfully. He’d been arguing with Isaac, his apartment’s super, about it for weeks. Isaac refused to fix his water until his favorite plumber came back from vacation -- which was in three days’ time -- and said that if Otabek didn’t like it he could just move out, citing the all-but expired lease as an incentive.

“Well,” Yuri said hesitantly, “since it’s up anyway, would you mind moving back for a few months? Just until she’s born?”

It was one of the hardest things Otabek had ever had to do to stop his smile, and from him, that was saying something. “Yeah,” he was relieved to hear that his voice sounded casual, “absolutely.”

The doctor smiled at the pair before glancing back down to his clipboard. “Now, with that settled, I have a few questions about your medical history…”

***

“But, Yuri,” Victor’s voice was very close to a plea, “are you _sure_ about this? It really doesn’t seem like a good idea: it’ll be hard--”

“I’m sure,” Yuri returned wearily, head pounding. Something of his exhaustion must’ve shown in his manner, for Victor sighed, relenting. “It’ll be fine.”

Victor shot a venomous glance at Otabek who stood just outside of the glass patient room door. He’d taken over giving Yuri’s medical history when it became apparent to everyone that Yuri was utterly exhausted and desperately needed to rest. “I hope so.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And this is where the medical inaccuracy tag comes in. . .
> 
> Yeah, so Preeclampsia is a real thing and I did a lot of research on it to get it as accurately written as possible. That said, however, this is fanfiction, and, while normal Preeclampsia would not cause you to faint in the middle of a dance class, pass out, have symptoms including fainting spells and dizziness, etc, I added them for the purposes of this story. 
> 
> (In addition to this, you would definitely be able to drive and live alone with Preeclampsia, but that was my best idea to get Otabek back in the house, so deal.) 
> 
> I linked a website explaining Preeclampsia in the text but if you have any comments, questions, or are possibly offended by my portrayal of this disorder, please reach out to me; I don't pretend to be an authority on this subject, but I tried.
> 
> Also: Yayyyy, Yuri finally shows SOME emotion! Even if he's still pretty not great, he's at least passionate in the defense of his baby, so, yay, character development(ish)! 
> 
> (Also, I realize that depression is mentioned briefly in this chapter and, while we go more in-depth with that during the next chapter the same rules apply to the Preeclampsia mention above.)
> 
> **NEXT UPDATE: JULY 10TH**
> 
> As always, comments and kudos make me squeal like an excited six-year-old, so, if you feel so inclined, I would be very happy to see them in my inbox. ♥


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Am I projecting my interests onto my characters? Yes. Did I reestablish my hypocrisy by doing something I hate it when authors do? Yes. Did I have a superbly difficult time writing this chapter? Shockingly, yes. 
> 
> After tinkering with several parts of this for _far too long,_ I am still not quite content with it. Oh well, I'm publishing it anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Recap Chapter 4: After a sad little memory of Yuri and Otabek's wedding day, the aforementioned pair met at a coffee shop and Yuri's eyes turned a little bit greener at the sight of the waitress flirting with Otabek. (Yuri is a beautiful, ever-evolving monster, after all.) After several not-so-stealthy foreshadowing moments, Yuri collapses in the middle of dance class and (fudging the symptoms slightly) it is revealed that he has Preeclampsia (links in the last chapter). Otabek is yelled at by Victor when he visits Yuri in the hospital and it is decided (against Victor's vehement wishes) that Otabek will move in with Yuri until the baby is born to help take care of him. The divorce is also postponed for the same amount of time because Otabek is worried about it being too stressful. Some lifestyle changes are also implemented for Yuri.

Yuri remained in the hospital overnight for monitoring, just to be on the safe side, and was released with several prescriptions and strict doctor’s orders the next morning. 

There was a small hitch in the discharge: Yuri, who, per the hospital’s policy, had to remain in a wheelchair until getting into the car, ended up in the middle of a near custody battle over who got to drive him home. In the end, it was Otabek who relented: it wasn’t worth fighting, he knew, and at seeing the exhausted look on Yuri’s face, his mind was made up.

Otabek backed off -- as gracefully as one could with a fuming Victor in their face -- and allowed the couple to bring Yuri back to his house while Otabek spoke to his landlord and started the (small, granted) move back home. 

_Back to Yuri’s house,_ Otabek reminded himself firmly at the slip of his mental tongue; he didn’t want to overstep his bounds and call it home yet. The whole ordeal was temporary, after all. And yet, as Otabek’s car (he had traded in his bike once he’d found out that Yuri was expecting) navigated the familiar turns to the house he’d once carried his husband over the threshold of, giggling and only a little drunk on champagne, he was finding it harder and harder to remember.

***

Yuri was shepherded inside the house by a certain over-eager couple, Victor most likely overcompensating for not being allowed to move Yuri in with them, and found himself in the kitchen, sat firmly in a chair as Victor and Yuuri bustled around him. 

Though Yuri had initially attempted to get the pair to allow him to help with the meal they had apparently decided to make, his efforts were proven futile, and he was pushed gently, but firmly, back down into a kitchen chair more than once before he gave in. Even when Yuri reminded the couple that he was not on bed rest and that he didn’t need to be treated any differently than before, they maintained that he needed to rest and that they were going to ‘help him’ while they had the chance. Yuri had an ominous feeling about the double meaning of the phrase but didn’t point it out, allowing himself to be hovered over and only speaking -- bland and tonelessly, of course1 \-- to tell the Katsuki-Nikiforovs where he kept the plates.

When, at last, a plate was placed in front of him, Yuri could see the full measure of his friends’ concern.

“I only skipped breakfast once.” Yuri stared blankly at the towering pile of pelmeni teetering on the plate before him. 

“But hospital food sucks,” Yuuri explained, “so we had to make up for two meals instead of one.” Except for the fact that Victor had taken it upon himself to slip out to a restaurant and get dinner for everyone the night before, so the only hospital food consumed had been so by Otabek, who had been conveniently forgotten during Victor’s little excursion, and had had to buy dinner in the hospital cafeteria.

“It’s good!” Victor said enthusiastically, nodding toward the plate; his voice boasted a salesman-like quality that Yuri recognized from countless dinners where Luci didn’t want to eat her broccoli, and Victor was showing her ‘how good it was!’ to trick her into it.

Thankfully, Yuri was spared from either comment or being forced to eat enough pelmeni for six people while being watched like hawks by two, by a knock on the door. Victor and Yuuri shot each other dark glances, but, with an air of being bitterly resigned to their fate, opened the door.

***

Having Otabek around the house again was odd. Deja vu. 

They found a rhythm nonetheless. 

Yuri got up at six, took a shower, brushed his teeth, fed the cat, and by 6:30 was making breakfast. By 7:15, Yuri was out the door-- just as the water turned on for the shower upstairs.

And if Yuri occasionally stopped in his tracks at the sound of a deep, warm voice cooing to a cat in the living room, that was irrelevant. He’d get used to it eventually.

***  
Yuri’s first day back to work was the day after he’d gotten home from the hospital, and, Victor picking him up at 7:25, he arrived at the studio after his two-day hiatus just wanting to get back to normal.

Normal, apparently, was the last thing he was going to get, as Yuri discovered when he stepped into Studio C -- the room in which all of his classes took place -- and found Lilia Baranovskya already there, waiting, and staring him down. Yuri did not miss the way her eyes flicked down to his abdomen when he entered the room.

“Victor told me that you’ve been covering my classes while we were understaffed. Thank you.” Was what Yuri said, tonelessly, as he straightened his already immaculate posture.

“I have,” Lilia agreed, “care to explain why?”

Yuri stepped past her when he spoke, moving further into the room; he was uncomfortably aware of the heavy, eye-catching presence of his abdomen preceding him. “I have Preeclampsia.” _And it was no big deal._

A thin eyebrow raised, “That’s a very serious condition.”

“I’m handling it.” and, possessed with the particularly unpleasant feeling that he was seventeen again and trying to explain away why he suddenly wanted to sleep on his off-day instead of watch the soap opera they always did, Yuri moved to the music station a few paces away in the corner of the room, setting his phone and speaker down atop it.

Lilia watched him, her gaze boring holes into the back of his skull; after knowing him for so long, she possessed the ability to connect the dots in a way very few could.

“I see.” Her voice was unremarkable when she spoke again, but a small, nearly unrecognizable, glint of concern in her eye gave her away, “Have you relapsed?” The question seemed to come entirely out of the blue, no relevance to the discussion, and yet--

Yuri stiffened, back straightening under his coach’s perpetual scrutiny, even as he stood leaning over a table. “I’m fine.”

And, as she watched him, Lilia’s gaze sharpened.

“I see,” she said again, after a pause, “in the case that complications do arise, however, as they often do with your condition, it would be no great burden on myself to teach a few more classes.” There was no clarification as to what or which ‘condition’ Lilia referred to.

When it had been made clear that Yuri was of no response, Lilia took her eyes off of him, and with one last, lingering look, she strode to the door of Studio C, her heels clicking on the polished wood floor. 

After Lilia had gone, Yuri moved through his daily chores when setting up for classes: he dusted off the music station, hooked up his phone to the speakers, swept the polished wood floor, and began cleaning the glass of the ballet mirror that occupied an entire wall alone. As Yuri ran the rag damp with glass-cleaner over the mirror, he heard Lilia’s words echoing through his head: _“Have you relapsed?”_

He hadn’t, Yuri knew. He was fine. And, as he had when his doctor had gently reminded him that _“perineal depression and general depression during pregnancy are very real things”_ and that _“treatment is only a breath away”,_ Yuri ignored it. 

And, as Yuri stared at himself in the reflection of the glass, he ignored the dead, hollow look in his eyes too.

***

When Yuri got home that day, he found Otabek waiting for him. Or, more accurately, he found Otabek hovering nervously in the living room by the entryway, pretending not to be waiting, but obviously doing so.

He jumped when Yuri opened the front door and hastily picked up a book from the coffee table, feigning nonchalance. “How was class?” He asked.

“Fine.”

Yuri walked past him, setting his bag down on the bench in the hall, placing his keys in the little glass dish kept on a dresser close to the door for that purpose, and making his way into the kitchen. 

His day _had_ been fine: his Junior Ballet class had been a headache, as usual; his Off-Ice Figure had been remarkably restrained when it came to complaining about _how annoying ballet was_ ; and his Senior Pointe-- well, Senior Pointe had been just about normal. He had gotten a few concerned questions, but he’d waved them off with simple answers, and his students had been pacified. Ekaterina asking to see him after class had actually been the only unexpected part of his day. 

After Senior Pointe and Advanced Lyrical (many students took the same several classes together, Ekaterina among them) had ended, Yuri had been asked, quite professionally, if there might be a job opening at the studio for a helper or an assistant teacher. Ekaterina had explained, openly and politely, that she thought her technique would improve if she could help with other classes, be used as an example, and assist in explaining how to perform more complicated moves to younger students. 

Yuri had told her that he’d talk to Victor and Yuuri, and, by the end of the day, had hired her as a helper for his Junior Ballet class -- only doing so at the insistence of the other teachers that their classes were all either too small or too easy to need a helper and that, since she was his student, Ekaterina should assist Yuri, whose Junior Ballet class was by far the most difficult to manage -- with the promise that, should she do well there, she would be given more classes to assist.

Honestly, Yuri had been surprised that Ekaterina had wanted to be a helper for the reasons she’d cited: both Yuri and Lilia -- who had told Yuri in the notes she’d left on his classes -- thought that the sixteen-year-old’s technique was exemplary, not at all something to be worried about. But then, that was the kind of person Ekaterina was: always looking to improve upon herself; and if she wanted to help out wrangling some kids, who was Yuri to question her motives?

And, indeed, Ekaterina’s first day (the following day) proved to go smoothly. Apparently, she hadn’t been lying when she’d said that her sister was young and that she was good at getting children to cooperate: with Ekaterina’s help and demonstrations, there were no tantrums or moments where the kids were too rowdy to be calmed and Yuri had to wait to continue again, throughout the entire class. At Ekaterina’s tentative request, it was agreed upon that she’d help out with the Beginner Pointe class and the Intermediate Lyrical too.

***

For the first time in a while, Yuri arrived home after his Junior Ballet class not completely exhausted. The remaining energy, however, did not negate the fact that his back was starting to hurt these days, and that his feet, too, ached after standing for so long.

(Yuri had yet to use the chair that had appeared in his studio one day, to sit during classes, and only allowed himself to employ its uses during his breaks between sessions when he was alone in the studio.)

After reheating some leftovers from Yuri-wasn’t-quite-sure-when-but-was-confident-that-they-were-not-yet-expired, Yuri had a dinner of chicken, broccoli, and rice, and, wanting to fall into bed and put his feet up for a bit, he clicked his tongue for Potya, who, unusually, he hadn’t seen since he’d left that morning.

Dishes done and Potya still unattracted by the sound of the food hitting her bowl, that, at any other time, could draw her from the remote corners of the Earth in under ten seconds, Yuri began to seriously wonder where the cat had gone. The mystery was solved, however, when Yuri passed the living room on his way up to bed and caught a glimpse of white fluff perched on a jean-clad leg. Oh, so she was with Otabek, then. 

The purrs were unmistakable: rumbling, and like a motorcycle revving in sound; Yuri had used to joke that it was a purr only Otabek could elicit since it sounded so much like his choice of vehicle. It was Potya’s happy purr. 

No wonder she hadn’t come to Yuri all day, he thought; she’d been entranced with Otabek’s presence after his absence for so long. Lingering no longer, Yuri made his way up to bed alone, letting his cat enjoy the company of the person she’d so missed.

***

Yuri was in the middle of class several days later when it was brought to his attention.

“Volya, leg higher on that arabesque!” Yuri called across the room as his class ran through their number. Through the students dancing, Yuri scanned their movements, eyes trained on a boy as he fell out of his triple pirouette a beat early. “Hold onto that longer, Mikhail,” Yuri called, “tighten your core!”

Yuri was pleased to see that on the next turn sequence, the boy was able to sustain them-- if a bit shakily. When the dance finished and Yuri dismissed his students to cool-down stretches, he was met with a hand in the air. 

“Yes?” Yuri asked, and Alexei put his hand down.

“Do you know when we’ll get the music?” He asked, and Ekaterina’s head snapped up. “I know you said that your _husband_ was modifying it, but it’s a little hard to get both the counts _and_ the emotion of the piece right when we haven’t even been able to put the music to the dance yet.”

“Then work harder,” Ekaterina shot back immediately, glaring at Alexei, “the counts aren’t difficult, and if you really _need_ to hear the music, look it up on YouTube; it’s one of the most famous songs around. The only reason we don’t have the music yet is because a _real, famous musician_ is modifying it for us to sound better than the original soundtrack did. _Of course,_ it’s taking him a little longer, he does have a _job_ that he has to compose for: a silly ballet class’s ballade isn’t exactly at the top of his list.”

_“Still,”_ Alexei bit back at her, “you’d think we’d get it faster than _this:_ after all, he is _married_ to our teacher, so you’d think that would help a bit.” 

Ekaterina hissed and shot him a look that promised death, but bit her tongue, quickly changing the subject. “It’s a pretty song.” She said brightly, turning to Yuri, “I can see why you chose it-- the emotion is a great challenge and it’s good to have our first _Phantom_ piece since it’s such a big show in ballet.”

Yuri nodded. “It is,” though that was not the reason he had chosen it. Then, turning to Alexei, “the music will be ready soon, for now, work on counting; you need to be able to balance that no matter how tasking or intricate the emotion of the piece is.”

Alexei looked like he was fighting to hide a scowl, but nodded before lying flat on the floor in a hip-opener, his face disappearing from view.

Ekaterina glared at the back of Alexei’s head before catching Yuri’s eye; she gave him a small, warm smile. 

Yuri appreciated her support, but he had to admit that Alexei was right: Yuri _did_ need to get the music to the class so they could rehearse with it. Otabek was busy, though, -- his label had given him several more deadlines with the prospect of a tour in a few months as well -- and Yuri didn’t need to add anything else to his plate. And especially since it was _this_ song…

Yuri could do it himself, he decided. What he wanted to be done wasn’t too difficult: just a few key changes, crescendos, and held instrumentals: no big deal. He could have it done by next week if he worked on it over the weekend. After all, he _had_ been married to a musician; he must have picked something up.

***

When Yuri got home that day, the routine went as usual: Otabek lingered in the living room, Yuri all but ignored him, Yuri made a quick dinner and, once it had been finished, worked on something or other for class. Today, Yuri went to the office, queuing up the music for Advanced Lyrical’s dance to listen to it through. Clicking into YouTube, Yuri pulled up [“All I Ask of You”](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gWKmYkaxGbc) from _Phantom of the Opera._

That was another reason he hadn’t wanted to bother Otabek about this: the song. While Yuri had told his class months ago, before Worlds when he’d decided to do this, that Otabek was modifying the song, he’d planned to ask Otabek to teach him how to do simple DJ work and suggest this song to learn by tinkering with. 

The whole thing had been a surprise, initially. “All I Ask of You” ~~was~~ had been, Otabek and Yuri’s song. Yuri had first heard it when he was still living with Lilia and she’d forced him to watch _Phantom of the Opera_ with her to ‘expose him to some music that wasn’t tone-deaf shrieking’ and, when later complaining to Otabek about it, Yuri had discovered that the cool, motorcycle-riding, leather jacket-wearing, deejaying guy he’d become friends with, was a closeted musical theatre nerd. Yuri had known that Otabek’s music taste had a broad range, but he never would have thought that it was _that_ broad.

Eventually, after watching the musical with Otabek again and being told the backstory of the musical compositions -- even watching Otabek alter some of them --, Yuri had fallen down the rabbit hole that was Broadway shows, though _Phantom of the Opera_ had always held a special place in his heart as the show that had gotten him into it all. 

Since then, Yuri and Otabek had made it a thing for them to watch _Phantom_ whenever they were together, be it for competitions camped out in a hotel room, over vacation in Almaty or Petersburg, or, later, whenever they felt like it after moving in together.

It became such a thing that the couple had taken to casually throwing out references to the musical in passing, eventually incorporating it into anniversary gifts. Otabek had even proposed to “All I Ask of You”, seeing as the song held a deeper meaning for them both, the lyrics applying to their relationship (in a very different context, of course) in a way that made it seem like it had been composed just for them.

Which was why, all those months ago, Yuri had decided to get his Advanced Lyrical class to help him out with an anniversary gift for Otabek: he had choreographed a sappy, sentimental routine to “All I Ask of You” and had planned to get his students to perform it for Otabek on their fifth wedding anniversary. Before Yuri had had the chance to explain that the routine was more than just another dance to his students, though, the Worlds banquet had taken place, and, too late to scrap the dance without it seeming odd, Yuri had converted it to a simple routine for the studio’s end of year show.

Throughout all of that, however, Yuri had grown used to teaching the dance without the music that he’d never been able to ask Otabek about, simply using counting to govern the timing, and had all but forgotten about the song.

To that principle, Yuri hadn’t listened to it in quite some time. Months, in fact. While Yuri had used to listen to it all of the time,2 either because it was stuck in his head or because he’d heard it playing around the house, “All I Ask of You” and _Phantom of the Opera,_ for that matter, had been absent from his thoughts for longer than he knew.

Shaking himself from the memories associated with the music and pressing play on the song, Yuri opened his notebook to mark down what he wanted to change.

_“No more talk of darkness  
Forget these wide-eyed fears  
I'm here, nothing can harm you  
My words will warm and calm you”_

And suddenly it all came rushing back-- _why_ this was their song. 

In the very beginning, Otabek had found Yuri on one of his bad days, and, worrying that Yuri shouldn’t be alone in that state, had stayed by his side, warm and patient and supportive, and hadn’t asked anything at all until Yuri had been strong enough to tell him

_“Let me be your freedom  
Let daylight dry your tears  
I'm here, with you, beside you  
To guard you and to guide you” _

If that didn’t describe Otabek, especially toward Yuri, nothing did. The man was an unwavering rock, and had helped Yuri in more ways than he could ever count, saving his life in more ways than one.

_“Say you love me every waking moment  
Turn my head with talk of summertime  
Say you need me with you now and always  
Promise me that all you say is true  
That's all I ask of you” _

Yuri never asked for things. He’d learned irrevocably from a young age that to ask and to hope and to expect would only lead to disappointment. Yuri had known -- until he had found Otabek -- that the only way to get what you needed was to work hard and be self-sufficient; dependent on no one. Yuri hadn’t asked for a promise of forever. Otabek had given it to him anyway. 

_ “Then say you'll share with me one love, one lifetime  
Let me lead you from your solitude  
Say you need me with you here, beside you  
Anywhere you go, let me go too  
Love me, that's all I ask of you” _

A question from Otabek, years and years after he had first found Yuri on a bad day. Small and tentative and hopeful in an unassuming way that was so inherently _Otabek,_ it hadn’t mattered that it was a bad day, or that Yuri wasn’t good enough, or that the words Otabek promised Yuri so readily were just pretty lies like everything else in his life was: Yuri had said yes.

_“Share each day with me, each night, each morning  
Say you love me, you know I do” _

Yuri had said yes, but the bad day hadn’t gone away. Instead of the romantic, joyful, celebratory evening most newly engaged couples enjoyed after having gotten so, they had watched a silly, Disney movie on the couch with popcorn after that. And even when Yuri whispered an apology for not being able to give Otabek the happy night he deserved, Otabek had promised him, a soft smile on his face, that he was perfectly content to watch kittens escape Timbuktu with his fiance curled up at his side. It still wasn’t a good day, but the day had gotten a bit better.

_“Love me, that’s all I ask of you”_

Something nudged against Yuri’s abdomen.

_“Anywhere you go, let me go too  
Love me, that's all I ask of you” _

The song was over, and a tear splashed down onto the notebook with nothing written in it. With trembling hands, Yuri reached down and closed the book before letting his fingers fall to his swollen belly, small thumps still pattering on the inside of it. The baby was kicking.

As the tears ran slowly down Yuri’s face, memories flashed through his mind, Yuri prisoner to the emotional pulls they brought and to the slight pain radiating through him as product of the kicking; helpless to stop it.

It took Yuri too long to compose himself after that, head swimming with memories that his consciousness drowned in, eventually finding the strength to pull himself out of the chair and shut off his laptop.

When Yuri went to bed that night, it was after washing dried, crusted tears from his cheeks, and with a gentle pounding resonating through his abdomen. 

He would work on the song the next day.

***

Yuri, true to his mental word, resumed his efforts the following day after dance class. This time, he managed to mark down several proposed changes before he was swept away into the song, and, halfway through it, the tiny thumps began again.

It was because he hadn’t eaten yet, Yuri decided, and put the tears and the memories he was fighting to repress aside as a response brought on from low blood sugar and hormonal changes-- yesterday’s, similarly, because he had been tired.

Yuri slowly began to make dinner, and, as more time elapsed since listening to ~~their~~ the song, the kicking quieted down.

It might have been a response to the music, Yuri contemplated as the small thumping continued within him as he started cooking. He’d heard somewhere that classical music was good during pregnancy, and while _Phantom_ wasn’t exactly classical, it was probably enough to excite the fetus that didn’t know any better. 

Yuri tested his theory the next day in class, playing a slow, instrumental, classical piece for Beginner Pointe’s warmup. Nothing. 

Odd, Yuri thought, but maybe the pace of the music didn’t appeal. He tried again with Tchaikovsky, playing it during Intermediate Lyrical, and, again, received no results.

When Yuri got home and began to work on “All I Ask of You” again, though, there was the hail of kicking on the opening notes. The more he tried to work on it, it seemed, the more difficult the task became. 

The tears, which Yuri had been clinging to the belief were an isolated incident, became a consistent phenomenon, appearing whenever _Phantom of the Opera_ played. The kicking, which Yuri was now resigned to, came only when “All I Ask of You” played: no other classical (or any) music held a candle to the reaction that song gleaned. After nearly a week of failed attempts and another snide comment on the lack of music from Alexei, Yuri could hide from the conclusion that he simply couldn’t do it, no longer. 

That night after getting home, Yuri asked Otabek if he would alter the music for his class. He agreed.

***

Yuri awoke late that night, blinking away the tears clinging to his eyelashes, and, confused as to what had woken him, he sought comfort. 

Disoriented, half asleep, Yuri stretched his hand back behind him, searching for the familiar warmth of his husband, who, like he’d done countless times, would wrap him in a hug, stroke his hair, and reassure him.

The bed was cold; empty to Yuri’s touch. Otabek wasn’t there. When Yuri tried to roll over to find him, he was met with resistance. He glanced down; his abdomen, heavy and swollen, sat immovably on top of his hips, pinning him to the spot. Yuri still struggled over, though, raking his gaze, wide and shining eyed, over the other side of the bed.

He had been dreaming, he realized then. The other side of the bed was empty, and it had been for a long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. This excerpt was taken from Victor's ever-constant, internal ramblings. He figured, lackadaisically as he moved around the kitchen, that the day Yuri showed real emotion again, there would be parades and roof-top dancing in his honor. But, hearing Yuuri's voice inside his head, he figured that that was probably insensitive, and scrapped the thought. Back
> 
> 2\. Sometimes Yuri and Otabek would walk in on each other listening to it and wrap their arms around each other, occasionally going as far as to dance around the room singing along, pretending to Christine and Raoul and inevitably dissolving into laughter at Yuri’s atrocious singing voice and over-acting. Back
> 
> ****A/N starts here****
> 
> I tried to do footnotes, didn't I? They didn't work as well as I'd hoped, and I still have to mess around with the code a bit, but, so far, how do you think I did?
> 
> This chapter gave me so much trouble and I don't even know why, though I do find it funny that I sat down and wrote a good 10K words for the next few chapters in one go. That said, the next chapter is a BEAST. 
> 
> Apologies for the lyric blocks; while I personally _despise_ it when authors do this, I couldn't find any way around it in this scenario, for the lyrics are actually incredibly important. And for those familiar with the song and _Phantom_ in general: yes, I did cut some of the lyrics in the fic, but only because I didn't feel they were necessary to what I wanted to achieve. 
> 
> Anywho, does anyone have anything to say about what was hinted at in this chapter? Some of the text was written very carefully to make you think, so, if you would, let me know if it worked!
> 
> The next update will be on **JULY 24TH**.
> 
> As always, comments and kudos make my day, so, if you would like to, I'd appreciate it if you left some. ♥


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I told you that this would be long, and 5.4K later here we are... with only half of the material I intended to put in this chapter included. Oh well, apparently this will be a two-part chapter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Recap Chapter 5: Yuri is released from the hospital and, following a brief clip of concerned Victuuri, Otabek moves in. We get a LOT of very important clues about Yuri's past mental health issues in the form of a conversation he has with Lilia, memories, and thoughts stirred by _Phantom of the Opera_.  
> Ekaterina is hired as a helper for several of Yuri's classes and defends him when a student in Senior Pointe makes a few snide comments about the lack of music for their routine. With this, we get an emotionally-stirring backstory set to "All I Ask of You", memories, sadness, and YURI SHOWS EMOTION!  
> After trying to edit the song by himself and discovering that the baby is seemingly _obsessed_ with _Phantom_ , Yuri eventually caves and asks Otabek to modify it, which he does. A few more sad, little instances, and the chapter is finished.  
> Ouch, that was a long summary.
> 
> **ALSO:** The fourth and fifth footnotes are being difficult so I'm sorry about that, but we're keeping them in anyway in the hopes that they will eventually get their acts together.

On the morning of his 27th week, Yuri woke up late. The baby had been kicking all night, making it impossible for him to sleep until the early hours of the morning, and therefore rendering him immune to the blaring of his alarm until nearly an hour of half-asleep snooze button pushes had passed3.

Moving through his morning routine quickly, Yuri was in the shower before ten minutes had passed, and, water running, he missed the unmistakable sounds of the floorboards creaking that signaled Otabek beginning to go about his day from down the hall. Otabek, though, noticed that the shower was on, and, reasoning that Yuri was running late, retreated downstairs to begin making breakfast until he could access the bathroom.

Otabek was at the foot of the stairs when he startled; a loud _bang_ had sounded from the bathroom above him, and he looked up, gazing at the ceiling. His eyebrows creased.

“Yuri?” He called. 

No response.

“Yuri?” He tried again. 

Nothing.

Maybe Yuri couldn’t hear him over the water, he reasoned, for it was still running loudly and he knew that the man was in the shower. Otabek’s blood ran cold.

Yuri was in the shower. There had been a loud bang from the bathroom and _Yuri was in the shower._

And as said realization came, all common sense went. Normally, though it was hard to imagine what constituted ‘normal’ nowadays, Otabek would’ve climbed the stairs, knocked on the bathroom door, and inquired if everything was alright. It’s what he _would_ have done, had things been normal. But things were not normal, and the thought didn’t even enter his mind.

Operating solely on the fear that Yuri had fallen and that _he was hurt because falling in the shower was one of the most common causes of harm to both mother and child,_ Otabek flew back up the stairs, bursting into the bathroom without so much as a second of hesitation.

Yuri was not, as Otabek had expected, lying, possibly unconscious, on the shower floor. Instead, he was bent over at almost a right angle, hand braced on his thigh to keep his balance, and reaching carefully down to the tiled floor for the shampoo bottle that, from the looks of it, had been knocked off of the shower’s shelf. 

At the sound of the door crashing into the wall, Yuri looked up. He froze.

For a moment, they just stared at each other, both paralyzed in horror. Then, after taking a most-likely _inexcusable_ amount of time to process anything besides the fact that _Yuri was fine,_ 4 Otabek tripped over himself in his haste to turn his back to his almost-ex husband. 

“I-I'm sorry!” He managed to choke out, eyes wide behind his hands even though he was no longer facing the shower (whose curtain was currently in the wash, leaving the _entirely clear stall_ on full display if Otabek should turn) “I-I didn’t mean-- I heard a crash and I thought-- I was worried--”

“It was the shampoo,” Yuri said weakly, “it fell,”

“Right, yeah, I, uh, saw that,” and then, hating himself even more because he had just admitted that _he’d looked_ even if his eyes hadn’t been focused on Yuri’s body, Otabek took several quick steps to the door. “I, uh-- sorry again.” He mumbled, maladroit, as he pulled it shut.

Yuri stood frozen in place after Otabek had gone, struggling to process _what the fuck had just happened._

Belatedly, his hands flew to cover himself, the horror washing over him as he realized that Otabek had seen him. He had seen him _naked,_ in the _shower._ Yuri felt ill. 

Now every time Otabek looked at him, he’d see _that_ in his memory, that horror of horrors that was Yuri’s current body. And the worst of it all, it was more than just him being pregnant. A swollen belly-- that was to be expected, but… 

But no one would really expect to see _breasts_ on a _man._ Pregnant or not.

Of course, this… new feature on Yuri’s body made sense: it (they?) had started developing when Yuri had hit four months, and now were noticeable enough that he had (more than once) been mistaken for a woman with their presence. Barely an A cup, but enough that he’d had to make a trip to the maternity store, wishing desperately to vanish into thin air, Yuri’s breasts were supposed to shrink when he stopped nursing, and he felt that that moment couldn’t come soon enough.

Of course, he knew that his body was going to change, that it had _already_ changed, immensely. He knew that his new figure wasn’t him being ‘fat’ or ‘unattractive’, it was because he was carrying a baby, and the breasts and changes were just side effects of that. He knew that that was nothing to be ashamed of or judged for. That didn’t mean he liked to flaunt it, though.

He wasn’t embarrassed and he didn’t struggle with image issues, but the knowledge that Otabek had seen Yuri, naked and exposed, so _changed,_ from the last time he’d been privy to his nudity, settled oddly in Yuri. The embarrassment at being walked in on in the shower was present, obviously, but more so than it would have been had Yuri looked the way he had five months ago. 

It made Yuri feel less than, somehow, as if this version of himself, husbandless and a soon-to-be single parent, was a broken model of the previous one, of the person he had been before. And having Otabek see him like that, as someone who had known Yuri better than anyone when he had been at his best, felt like he was just giving Otabek more material on Yuri’s shortcomings: more reasons to prove that he was right to have left him. Especially since Yuri knew that Otabek’s memory of him was so marred by this new, downgraded version.

It didn’t matter, Yuri reminded himself: Otabek’s perception of him wasn’t relevant anymore. Except, even if Yuri was loath to admit it, it did.

Yuri’s phone pinged on the counter, a text surfacing. 

Yuri shook his head, the intrusive thoughts dissipating; he didn’t have much time until Victor would pick him up to go to the studio, so Yuri forced himself from the shower, dressing and walking downstairs, all the while firmly repressing the desire to hide from Otabek’s view.

Otabek was in the kitchen, as was expected, and looked up as Yuri entered the room. His gaze was broken off, though: quickly, a pained expression making a fleeting appearance on Otabek’s face before he schooled it back to its custom stoicism.

_Great, he can’t even look at me anymore._

Wordlessly, Yuri crossed the room, wrapped in his bulkiest sweater of the kind he’d foregone months ago due to the intense July heat.5

Grabbing a banana from the fruit bowl on the table, Yuri turned to leave the kitchen, intending to wait on the porch for Victor. Just as he reached the doorway, though, he was stopped by a voice.

“I really am sorry,” Otabek said, and Yuri could envision the sincere, apologetic expression etched into his face without even turning to look, “I didn’t think: I just burst in like that. I shouldn’t have.” 

Yuri, back turned and motionless in the doorway, nodded slightly. “Next time, just knock first.” A horn honked outside, and Yuri was gone.

***

Yuri’d just finished with his second-to-last class of the day and was passing the front desk when his attention was caught by a stream of colorful swear words, swear words in the voice of someone he’d heard curse under 5 times in his life-- and two of them had been labor.

Yuuri hung up the phone with a sigh, and, noticing Yuri watching him, gave a small, exasperated smile.

“I let Victor handle the summer camp registrations this year,” he said, “I should’ve known to do it myself -- Luci is changing an age division, which makes everything more complicated -- but,” he sighed, shaking his head ruefully, “ah well, there’s nothing I can do about it now.”

Yuri nodded, pulling out some paperwork and beginning to file it as Yuuri busied himself with his phone, undoubtedly trying to find a spot for Luci at the camp. He looked up suddenly, a tentative, scheming smile on his face.

“Yuri,” he began, “Mondays, Thursdays, and Fridays aren’t very busy for you, right? Not too many classes?” 

Yuri nodded, resigned to what he already knew would be his fate. “Not many, no. None on Fridays.”

“That’s what I thought,” Yuuri said before raising both eyebrows and smiling in the way Yuri knew meant a request. “Is there any way you could watch Luci on those days?” Yuuri asked hesitantly, “Normally I wouldn’t ask but since Vitya and I are both really busy then and the summer camp for Luci’s age group is full… please? We’d really appreciate it.” 

Yuri sighed, “Do you need me to watch Elliot too?”

Yuuri grinned, “Thank you, Yuri! We really appreciate it! And no: he goes to a separate daycare which _I_ signed him up for, so he’s fine.” Yuri nodded again. “I can bring Luci to your house after your class? It’s only until six and then Victor can take her.”

“Sure.”

***

It turned out, as Yuri later discovered, that agreeing to watch a five, almost six,-year-old was far more difficult than he had anticipated. 

“It’s only for a few weeks -- one of the kids is moving and dropping out of the camp so we can get her in after that -- and if there are any problems just call me or Victor and we can sort it out. If you don’t feel well or you’re too tired some days just let me know and you don’t have to take her--”

“I’m fine, Yuuri.”

“Okay, but still,” he insisted, “if something comes up or you just don’t feel able, don’t worry about it.” Yuri nodded methodically as Luci bounced up and down in her eagerness to start playing. “Now, I packed her backpack with everything she might need, including snacks, and if she gets too excited just let her know-- she’s good about calming down when she becomes overwhelming.” Yuri nodded again. “Okay, um, I think that’s everything? Victor will pick her up at about six, and-- oh! She can swim, since I see the pool’s open, so you can let her go in, but I do ask that you stay out there with her when she does-- just in case.”

“I will.”

“Great!” Yuuri smiled, slightly manic, and crouched down to be on level with his daughter, holding her shoulders gently. “Luci, I want you to be on your best behavior for Uncle Yurio, okay?”

Luci smiled brightly, “I will!”

Yuuri smiled fondly, stroking his daughter’s silky, raven curls. “Good girl. Now, Daddy is picking you up in two hours, okay?” She nodded, and, when Yuuri announced that he was leaving, she hugged him tightly and pressed a kiss to his cheek. 

Yuri wondered absently if that was what his daughter would do with him.

When Yuuri’s endless instructions had at last petered out and he had left, Yuri turned to the little girl practically vibrating with excitement next to him.

“Can we go in the pool?” She asked immediately, staring up at Yuri with wide, pleading, puppy dog eyes. “It’s so hot, and I brought my swimsuit! Even my goggles!” 

“Sure.” Yuri said, and, after letting the little girl get changed in the bathroom (he stayed outside the door-- how careful was one supposed to be with a five-year-old?) and changing as well (he told her to sit on the bed and pet Potya until he came back, and she did, thank God), they made their way outside. 

Then returned inside, as Yuri slathered both himself and the impatient, little gremlin with sunblock, before finally making it to the poolside.

(When Yuri and Otabek had bought this house, they’d gotten it at an amazing price, since, as it was located in _Russia,_ no one was crazy enough to purchase a home with an in-ground pool that they could only use about one month out of the year and have to keep from freezing over the rest of the time. 

\-- Honestly, the lunatic architect who thought that the pool was a good idea must’ve been more eccentric even than Victor. -- 

Yuri, being the adventurous, unorthodox person he was, had talked Otabek into buying the house, pool and all, with the justification that it would be great for low-pressure endurance training and the promise that Yuri would maintain it. A promise promptly broken the first time Yuri realized how _gross_ a pool got after lying dormant for 11 months. Otabek had taken over shortly after, and when he had arrived several weeks ago, he had (with permission from Yuri, of course) opened the pool for the first time that year, though it had been thus far unused.)

Carefully setting their towels and two bottles of water a few feet away from the edge of the shallow end, Yuri let the little girl in his company dip into the pool. She shrieked in glee and proceeded immediately to dunk in and out of the water, emerging with great, volcanic splashes and giggling tremendously. 

Yuri, meanwhile, lowered himself carefully down to sit on the third step into the shallow end, water halfway up his abdomen.

As Yuri watched Luci play, (luckily the girl seemed content to play by herself with minimal participation on Yuri’s part) he found his thoughts returning to those of that morning. He glanced down at his swimsuit. He’d only agreed to go in the pool because Luci had all but begged him to, and, feeling slightly tense about not being in the water with her after what Yuuri had said, he’d given the little girl what she’d wanted. Still, though, as Yuri sat in the shallow, tepid water, he couldn’t help but foster the irrational hope that Otabek wouldn’t see him wearing his [bathing suit ](https://www.motherhood.com/collections/maternity-swimwear-bathing-suits-cover-ups/products/ruched-two-piece-maternity-tankini-swimsuit-upf-50-001-93329-000-001?variant=34054293946504). After The Shower Incident™, the less of Yuri’s body Otabek saw, the better.

A black and white, gingham tankini (maternity bathing suits were mostly multi-pieces, something about allowing the abdomen room to grow without any pressure being put on it), Yuri’s swimsuit had been the least eye-catching option he’d been able to find, though he still felt barely short of naked while wearing it. As most were, Yuri’s suit was skin-tight and revealing, highlighting the changes to Yuri’s figure that he had felt so very prominent over the past few days. It made him feel exposed, or like he was being indecent by wearing it: as though he was something that was particularly vulgar or inappropriate to see.

No matter, though, for Luci didn’t seem to be paying him the slightest bit of attention, and Yuri took some relief in the fact that he doubted Otabek would be home before Luci had tired herself out and the pool was traded for another activity. 

“Uncle Yurio!” Luci cried suddenly and Yuri felt himself startle when he realized that she’d swum all the way out to the nine-foot deep, deep end without him noticing. “Watch me flip!”

“Luci!” Yuri called back, but it was too late: the little girl was already under the water, emerging a second later, coughing but smiling.

“It was good, right?” She asked brightly, and Yuri nodded, a slight tightness in his chest at the sight of the little girl in such deep water.

“Yes,” he replied, motioning for her to come back, “but why don’t we stay in the shallow end for a while? You can do handstands.” he offered in an attempt to pacify the little, discontented frown she wore.

“Why?” She asked, but grudgingly began to swim back toward him. 

The tightness in Yuri’s chest lessened somewhat as she grew closer. “Because,” he said, “it’s more fun over here.”

“No, it’s not,” Luci pouted, but sat by his side all the same. Yuri let a hand run over her sodden, dark locks. “I can’t flip over here!”

“Why don’t you try to do a cartwheel?” Yuri asked, aiming to distract her.

“A cartwheel?” She mused, “You can’t do those in the pool.”

Yuri shrugged, “You can try.” Probably not the best sales pitch.

Luci looked at him suspiciously, far more perceptively than a five-year-old should, but waded a few feet out nonetheless, taking the correct stance and experimenting with different ways to perform an underwater cartwheel. Yuri was fairly sure that it couldn’t really be achieved, but it was entertaining the little girl, so his goal had been met.

As they kept seeming to, Yuri’s thoughts drifted back to that oh-so-unpleasant subject and began to build again, distracting Yuri enough that he jumped when Luci appeared, seemingly out of nowhere, at his shoulder.

“Can I braid your hair?” She asked chirpily, “It’s pretty and yellow; it would look nice.”

“Uh--” Yuri began but was interrupted when Luci squealed and pointed at something over his shoulder. 

“Uncle Beka!” She cried, and Yuri’s stomach sank as the little girl clambered out of the water and raced towards Otabek, who had just poked his head out of the back door.

Otabek laughed, the warm sound filling the air, and was momentarily heedless of any hesitance or qualms. “Luci!” 

He bent and caught her as she launched herself into his arms, walking down the steps to swing her gently around on the flat ground. That tightness in Yuri’s chest increased from where it had been dissolving as he watched the little girl fly in the air, hair whirling and whipping around her face as she was spun. While he watched though, Yuri could see how careful Otabek was being, his grip firm but not painful on Luci’s armpits, and how controlled the motion of spinning her was.

“You got so big,” Otabek said, laughing as Luci attached herself to his chest like a monkey after he tried to set her down. “Stop growing!”

“No!” Luci squealed gleefully, wrapping her little arms around his neck, “I missed you, Uncle Beka! Daddy said I couldn’t see you because you went on vacation, but he wouldn’t let me call you-- why not? And why didn’t Uncle Yurio go too? Mama and Daddy always go on vacation together-- with me!” Otabek’s smile faltered slightly but he wasn’t given the chance to talk, Luci continuing on and speaking in the excited, rapid-fire way all children did. “Uncle Beka!” She cried suddenly, eyes huge and little, rosebud lips stretched into a huge smile, “Will you braid my hair?”

Otabek blinked. “Sure,” he said, and let her down, gently depositing her next to the pool, which she promptly threw her feet over the edge of and kicked happily, splashing water everywhere.

Yuri raised a hand slightly to shield his face from the displaced water, and, seemingly, that was the first time Otabek noticed his presence. As Otabek knelt slowly behind Luci and began to part her hair, he glanced apprehensively at Yuri, his eyes finding the swimsuit and the prominence of Yuri’s abdomen, rising in clear view above the water. Otabek refocused on Luci’s hair, an expression crossing his face too quickly for Yuri to read.

“I didn’t realize we were babysitting,” Otabek said, valiantly striking up a conversation topic and ignoring how his own eyes seemed to flick again to Yuri’s swimsuit every few seconds. “I would’ve gotten something special from the store.” 

Of course, he’d gone grocery shopping-- Yuri kept meaning to, but every time he got around to it he found that Otabek already had.

“You’re home early,” Yuri said, shifting as nonchalantly as he could to move to a lower step: the water swelled and rose so just the top of his abdomen remained dry. 

Judging by the slight, quickly suppressed wince Otabek showed, Yuri’s words came out more curtly than he had intended.

“They rearranged my hours at the studio,” Otabek said after a second, resolutely keeping his eyes on the intricate plait winding down Luci’s back after another glance showed him Yuri’s movement, and he bit his lip. “They swapped my time with another musician’s: she goes in on Mondays and Fridays now, while I’m off. We just finalized it today.”

Yuri nodded silently and Otabek tied off Luci’s hair with the small hairband perpetually on his wrist.

“Thank you!” Luci said, all smiles, and hugged Otabek in a way that dragged him dangerously close to the edge of the pool. He set a hand down on its edge to steady himself and Yuri shifted lower; the water just below his shoulders now. “Now braid Uncle Yurio’s!” 

Both Yuri and Otabek froze, but, before Otabek could speak, Yuri was already shaking his head.

“No,” he said, quiet but firm. 

“Why?” Luci whined lightly,

Yuri took in a breath, eyes resolutely on the shimmering water. “My hair’s a rat’s nest right now,” he said after a moment. “It tangles really badly whenever it gets in the pool.” Luci’s eyes moved to where only the last few inches of Yuri’s hair swirled in the water, the rest perfectly dry.

Luci scrunched her little eyebrows and pouted, “Uncle Bekaaa,” she begged, “please braid Uncle Yurio’s hair! It would look so pretty!”

“Uh,” Otabek started, glancing at Yuri, whose gaze stayed deliberately on the rippling, blue water surrounding him. “I don’t think so,” he said after giving up on meeting Yuri’s eyes. Luci had to have asked for a _braid._ “I have some work to do, right now. Why don’t you go back to playing in the pool?” Luci’s complaints were tactfully ignored as Otabek gave her one last hug, ignoring the way her sopping bathing suit got him wet, and made his way back inside.

Their time in the pool didn’t last long after that, Luci seeming to count any further moment without Otabek playing with her, a moment wasted. Not half an hour had passed before Yuri was being all but pulled inside by the little girl, determined to spend time with ‘Uncle Beka.’

Yuri had only enough time to force her into normal clothes, towel her hair, and wait so he could do the same, before she was off and hurrying to the dining room where she’d spotted Otabek working on his laptop-- he hadn’t been using the office since moving back in, seeming hesitant to occupy the space should Yuri need it, though he rarely did.

At this point, Yuri excused himself to the kitchen to prepare an afternoon snack for Luci. He took out the food Yuuri had sent with his daughter and cut up some strawberries and apple slices for the girl, though he took his time in doing so. When he eventually could delay no longer, he brought the snacks out to the dining room, and, upon finding no one there, the living room, where he could hear Luci giggling and Otabek’s low, warm laugh.

As Yuri approached the room, he was met with the sight of Luci and Otabek playing with the dolls she had brought with her, and, to Yuri’s slight surprise (though it had happened often enough that it shouldn’t have surprised him anymore) a princess tiara that Luci had to have come with sitting on Otabek’s head. 

“Dance with me!” Luci cried gleefully, giggling when Otabek moved his Ken doll to seemingly embrace Luci’s Barbie.

“It would be my pleasure.” Otabek said in a low, formal voice that had Luci giggling and the former smiling slightly.

Luci made their dolls dance for a few seconds, then, getting bored, pushed them into Otabek’s hands so he could take up the task.

“Wait!” Luci said suddenly, “They need music! Do you have music?” She asked Otabek urgently, eyes wide and alarmed at the thought that the prince and princess wouldn’t have a serenade for their waltz.

“Can you say please?” Otabek asked, laughter dancing in his eyes as Luci immediately nodded frantically

“Please!!”

“Thank you,” Otabek said, nodding his approval, “and it just so happens that I do have music.” Reaching into his pocket, Otabek produced his phone, turning on a classical ballad quietly for the dolls to dance to.

Luci hummed along as the dolls revolved on the carpet, giggling occasionally when Otabek moved them so the Barbie was held in a pairs lift above Ken's head. 

Yuri didn’t know how long he stood watching them, concealed by the doorway, but what seemed very suddenly and all too soon, Luci noticed him.

“Uncle Yurio!” She cried, beaming, and Otabek’s frame stiffened as Yuri froze even in his immobile state. He felt guilty, though he knew that watching a little girl play dolls with her uncle wasn’t a crime. “Come play too!”

Otabek turned, obviously grasping for any air of nonchalance he could find, and failing spectacularly. 

“I brought snacks,” Yuri said stiffly, all too aware of Otabek’s keen gaze boring into him, the man undoubtedly wondering _how long_ Yuri had been lurking in the doorway and _why_ he had been at all. “Luci, it’s time for a break; you need to eat something.”

Barbie still in hand, Luci hopped up from her previous position on the floor and scurried over to where Yuri had reluctantly come further into the room after being discovered. Yuri set the small tray of fruits and such down on the coffee table, handing Luci a juice box Yuuri had packed as well.

Unable to find a feasible excuse to vacate the room once more, Yuri slowly sat down on the far side of the sofa, close to the coffee table and almost blocked from view by Luci’s kneeling form. 

Having scarfed down her food and finished her juice box -- quickly enough that Yuri was vaguely concerned that she would choke -- Luci turned her gaze upon Yuri, puppy-dog eyes coming out in full force and Barbie in hand. “Will you play dollies with me and Uncle Beka?” She asked hopefully, her expression sweet enough to make Yuri feel like an absolute monster should he deny her.

Yuri glanced over to where Otabek remained kneeling on the ground with his doll, his back perfectly straight and his body angled in a way that didn’t exactly put his back to Yuri, but made the prospect of conversation difficult. He hadn’t moved since Yuri had entered the room. 

Yuri also looked on to where he’d be expected to play if he said yes. The idea of trying to awkwardly kneel down on the rug, hindered immensely by his abdomen, made Yuri feel quite sure that he could not play with them: maneuvering himself gracefully onto the couch had been difficult enough, he didn’t want to embarrass himself any more than necessary by trying to get to the ground without losing his balance.

“I don’t think so,” Yuri said at last, “why don’t you two keep playing your game?”

Luci pouted, “Please! It’s fun!”

Yuri shook his head, “No, not today.”

“Fine.” The little girl grumped, looking thoroughly put out. Then, seeming to have a brilliant idea, her face lit up. “Watch our game instead!” She chirped, positively buoyant at the prospect of performing with her dolls before Yuri. “You can see the play!”

“Luci, why don’t we--” Otabek tried, speaking for the first time since Yuri’s arrival, and seeming thoroughly disinclined to enact the five-year-old’s idea. Luci cut him off before he could get any further, though.

“Please?” Luci directed her plea at Yuri, imploring with her big, brown eyes and pouty, pink lips.

Yuri hesitated a moment before, slowly, “Alright.” He said finally, “Show me your play.” 

Luci beamed and immediately catapulted herself over to where Otabek still knelt, beginning to talk in her high-pitched, Barbie voice and moving her doll accordingly. 

Otabek remained still for a moment, before, with an “Uncle Beka, _now!”_ He began to participate; slowly, some mix of apprehension and embarrassment weighting his motions. They had just gotten to the part where the dolls started to dance again (Otabek still incredibly stiff on arriving so) when the doorbell rang.

“Let me get it,” Otabek said, apparently seeking an escape from the palpable tension in the room, though his lips quirked as Luci jumped up and hurled herself through the house to get to the door. “Luci, let me open it!” He called as he followed her, and, reaching the door, pulled it open.

Victor stood on the other side and leveled Otabek with one of the coldest glares he’d ever seen, eyes flicking from the princess tiara on his head to the excited, giggling Luci holding his sleeve.

“Daddy!” Luci cried, throwing herself into her father’s arms. 

Victor caught her but didn't take his eyes off of Otabek. “I didn’t know you’d be home,” he said. The ‘if I had, I wouldn’t have let Luci come,’ was implied.

“My hours got switched,” Otabek replied, voice and face stoic and impassive.

“Ah,” Victor said coldly, glaring at him and stepping through the doorway. “Naturally. And you didn’t deign to let anyone know?”

Otabek’s jaw tightened, “It only happened today. I just found out myself.”

Victor sniffed. “Naturally.” Then, turning to Luci, “Go get your backpack, honey.” Obediently, Luci, once let down out of her father’s arms, scampered off to the living room in search of it.

Otabek, trying to defuse the situation, stepped back, gesturing vaguely at the kitchen, visible beyond a doorway. “Can I offer you a drink? It’s hot today.”

“Yes, it normally is in the middle of a _heatwave,”_ Victor replied snappishly, saying so as if to imply that the phenomenon was entirely Otabek’s fault. “But no: I just want to get my daughter and go.” 

“Okay.” Otabek replied, breathing deeply through his nose.

The silence rose and coiled around them, animosity charged and testosterone practically malodorous in the air.

“Why were you with Luci?” Victor asked suddenly, “We asked Yuri to watch her, where is he? Why are you around my daughter? I see no reason for you to be.”

“Yuri’s in the living room, where Luci and I just were.” Otabek’s jaw was tight, “And Luci wanted to play with me-- she said she’d missed me while I was on _‘vacation.’”_

Victor’s eyes narrowed, voice low and incensed. “How _dare--”_

“Daddy!” Both men turned to see Luci, backpack in tow, standing in the doorway. “Why are you yelling at Uncle Beka?”

Victor shot Otabek a dirty look as though this was entirely _his_ fault. “Don’t worry about that, honey,” he said, smiling at the little girl, “he just made me mad, that’s all. Are you ready to go?”

“Why?” Luci asked, completely ignoring the second part of what her father had said. She blinked owlishly up at Victor. “Did he steal your apple?” Both men stared. “Cody took Allie’s apple at lunch,” she explained, dropping names and expecting them to know the people they belonged to, the way children so often did. “Allie got mad and then Mrs. Aivich made Cody give it back. Did Uncle Beka steal _your_ apple?” If it were a different situation, Otabek would’ve been very tempted to laugh, but at the cold, stony look on Victor’s face, it wasn’t as funny as it might have been.

“No, honey,” the man said, giving his daughter a small but genuine smile, before switching to glare at Otabek again, “Otabek didn’t do anything bad to _me.”_ But Luci wasn’t listening anymore, now babbling happily about how Olivia and Dahlia and her played horsies at recess.

Giving Otabek one last withering glare, Victor picked up his daughter and swept out of the house, slamming the door behind him before Luci even had time to turn and wave goodbye at Otabek. Otabek sighed, and Yuri, standing just out of sight behind the kitchen doorway, tried to figure out what the hell he’d just overheard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 3\. Yuri had noticed that the baby, having apparently grown used to Yuri’s previous nightly work on “All I Ask Of You” had become irritated by the ending of such events, and had chosen to lodge her protest in the form of kicking until they resumed. As a result, Yuri was now several days underslept, and was appreciating how _strong_ his daughter’s legs were with a new respect. Back
> 
> 4\. He was unable to process things such as; _Yuri was naked in the shower_ and _Yuri was probably both humiliated and livid at this blatant invasion of privacy._ [Back](nakedback)
> 
> 5\. Saint Petersburg was in the middle of one of the most intense heat waves it’d had in decades, the temperatures skyrocketing enough for the news to warn against any excessive time outside and the risk of heatstroke. [Back](hotback)
> 
> ****A/N starts here****
> 
> Okay, so I can already hear the screaming comments, so let me clarify several things. 
> 
> Previously, I believe I referred to Yuuri as "Dad" or some variation thereof in attendance to his biological and social relationship with Luci and Elliott. Partly because it just helps to differentiate between spouses and because, in a world where men can also get pregnant, it would just make sense to refer to them as "mama" or some variation thereof, I'm changing the terminology so whoever carried the child is referred to as "mama" or whatever they prefer to be called. So, yes, Yuri will be "mama", too. He is also referred to as "Uncle Yurio" because, in my mind, "aunt and uncle" would fall in line with one's gender identity while "grandma, grandpa, mom, and dad, etc." are whoever physically had the child. Does that make sense? I hope so.
> 
> (Also: Even though Yuri identifies as male in this fic, he is essentially androgynous in terms of clothing and hairstyle. This is seen in his swimsuit.)
> 
> Sorry, that was long!
> 
> **NEXT UPDATE IS AUGUST 7TH**
> 
> As always, comments and kudos thrill me in a way little else does, so if you feel so inclined, I would be very grateful! ♥


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hey, Venom, remember how once you said that you wanted Yuri to just crawl into bed with Otabek and be like 'I'm sad; hold me'? XD

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 6 Recap: Otabek thinks Yuri has fallen in the shower, burst in and sees him naked, we get a lovely lesson in how to be ashamed of your body from Yuri, and general awkwardness ensues. Yuri is enlisted to watch Luci (Victuuri's kid) three days a week and I blatantly disregard the fact that this is set in Russia and give him an in-ground pool for Yuri and Luci to play in. Cuteness with Dad-abek and Luci, and when Victor comes to pick the latter up, he's a total ass to the former-- rather on-brand for this fic. Honestly, the entire chapter was just **tension** personified.
> 
> Also: Remember when I said that this chapter was the second half of chapter six that got too long to post together? Almost 8K words later... it deserves a chapter title of its own.

Yuri stood in the doorway of the nursery, looking inside at the half-painted interior. The walls were a soft, muted pink with an accent wall bearing a shade of grey so warm and light it made the room apparently glow. 

The nursery’s construction had been underway for a few days following a slightly uncomfortable conversation about design preferences to which Yuri had been entirely indifferent and that resulted in Otabek essentially picking the colors and anxiously hovering while Yuri confirmed. 

So far, Yuri had been barred from helping with the room’s construction; as the paint fumes would be harmful to him and he was unable to lift heavy objects, there really wasn’t much he’d be able to do. Nevertheless, he had been reminded twice to stay away-- once, vaguely awkwardly but gently, from Otabek, and again, firmly and almost reprimanding, by Victor, who had come over to help.

Currently, the latter two were taking a break while the first coat of paint dried, taking the time to scrub the pink and grey from their hands and have lunch, cooling off from painting.

While the house was climate-controlled, the raging inferno that was the heatwave had yet to let up and, for the first time, Saint Petersburg was able to sympathize with the Southern hemisphere, wondering how they ever got anything done in the heat.

At the telltale sounds of Otabek and Victor returning upstairs, Yuri moved away from the doorway of the nursery, retreating into the office. He’d been working on choreographing a routine for his Beginner Pointe class, hoping to familiarize them with more difficult types of turns while up en pointe, and needed to adjust a few counts for it to be dance-ready. 

Though he’d been hesitant to introduce the turns at first, knowing that for this type of lesson demonstrations were essential and that he was in no position to give them, since Ekaterina was a helper and had expressed eagerness to demonstrate when he’d asked her, he’d decided that he’d give it a shot. His students had been asking about the turns anyway, and if they were that excited, he figured, he may as well harness the energy and use it for something productive. 

Yuri sat down at the desk as, across the hall, Otabek and Victor returned to their work, deeming it time for a second coat of paint. 

Otabek dipped his paintbrush into the pot of pink sitting at his elbow, finishing the edging where pink met the grey of the accent wall before he started with the roller. Victor, on the other side of the wall, had taken the opposite tack and had chosen to use the rollers first, recoating the grey wall slightly haphazardly, using far too much paint on certain sections and going back to the paint tray with every other stroke.

Otabek fought a surge of annoyance as he looked on; there was a reason he had assigned Victor a third of his own task: the man _could not paint._ Several years ago, when Victor had tried to paint Luci’s nursery, he’d done such a bad job (drips everywhere, the siding smeared, the walls splotchy enough to resemble leopard print) that Yuuri had eventually banned him from the task and had called Yuri and Otabek over to fix it. The paint war they had gotten into had taken hours to clean up, but eventually, all of the purple had been gotten out of Yuri’s hair and the paint job had ended up pristine.

Fighting a sigh at the leopard print-esque job Victor was doing now, Otabek returned to his own work, fully resigned to the fact that he’d be repainting the wall once Victor had left. In truth, he fully wished that Victor wasn’t helping _at all,_ but apparently the man had so little faith in him that he didn’t trust him to paint walls correctly. There had been no dissuading him, and, after a few aborted tries that had resulted in straight-up _growling_ from Victor, Otabek had given up and ‘accepted’ (as if he’d ever had a choice in the matter) his help.

Finished with his job of the edging and Victor finally smoothing out his rough second coat, Otabek grabbed his paintbrush to wash it before moving on to use the roller.

“Are you finished with the tray?” He directed the question to the back of Victor’s head. “I’m ready to switch if you are.” 

Grunt. Nod.

Otabek moved over and collected the paint tray, planning to rinse the grey from it so he could refill it with pink, and was at the open door when he heard a growl of frustration and several choice curse words erupt behind him. Looking back over his shoulder, Otabek saw a large smear of paint on the sheeting they’d put down over the carpet; Victor had evidently forgotten that Otabek had taken the paint tray and had put his roller down on the plastic. 

With another internalized sigh, Otabek left Victor to clean up his mess, retreating to the bathroom.

A little over an hour and several venomous glares from Victor later, the second coat of paint was done, and, finished for the day, the two were working on moving all of the painting supplies to the center of the room so they could see the full picture unobstructed. 

“Is this closed?” Otabek asked Victor, gesturing to a full can of pink paint beside him.

“What does it look like?” Victor snapped, rolling his eyes at Otabek’s apparent idiocy.

With the smallest of eye rolls, Otabek stooped to grab the paint can, moving to set it in the center of the room with the rest. As he did, though, he forgot about Victor’s paint splotch on the sheeting, the man having repeated his mistake and refreshed it several times more. Otabek’s foot slid in the paint and, before he even hit the ground, he was covered, head to toe, with pink paint.

Otabek was still for a second, motionless, before wiping the paint from his eyes and mouth. 

“The can was _not_ closed.”

He stood, walking out of the room, away from Victor whose eyes were huge and shocked, and, _of course,_ came face to face with Yuri, who was leaving the office, in the hallway.

Yuri just stared at him for a second, eyes moving slowly from his face to his boots and back up to his face again, taking in the pink-covered figure before him. He was at an absolute loss for words, mouth slightly open and stunned.

“The paint wasn’t closed.” Otabek muttered, moving past him to the bathroom, hoping to get most of the paint off in the shower, and feeling his ~~ex~~ husband’s eyes follow him all the way.

***

That Wednesday, Yuri came home more exhausted than he had done in a long time. Wednesday was one of his longer days to begin with, as it and Tuesday each held at least four classes -- subbing not included --, among them the Junior Ballet class, Yuri’s most tedious and time-consuming lesson by far. It was normally manageable, however, especially with Ekaterina’s help as the assistant teacher to get the children to behave: so, for the past few months, Yuri had been handling it fairly well. Today, however, he did not. 

Even from the morning, everything had been worse than usual. Ekaterina was out that day, having been asked to an interview at the Mariinsky ballet, its director having been very impressed with her audition for their academy a while back, which meant that Yuri was alone dealing with his classes. 

Yuri didn’t realize, it seemed, how much Ekaterina did until she was gone.

Ekaterina had one day, without being asked, taken over the chores that Yuri usually did before the studio opened. They were nothing big; sweeping the floor; cleaning the mirror; setting up the music station, and such, but Yuri hadn’t done them in several months, and a lot had changed since he last had. 

Safely in his third trimester, Yuri’s abdomen had grown from being a mere hindrance to a downright liability, throwing off his balance badly enough that he found himself clinging to the barre and going down into a split to be able to sit without risking a fall. Getting up was more of an issue, but Yuri managed it all the same, returning less than gracefully to his feet after several minutes too long of aborted attempts, red-faced and humiliated even though he was alone in Studio C.

The point was, though, that the opening chores suddenly seemed so much harder to do than they had been, and by the time Yuri’s first class rolled around, Yuri’s back and feet were aching, though he still stubbornly refused to occupy his chair during class.

Intermediate Broadway, Intermediate Lyrical, and Beginner Pointe passed easily enough, though they were still fairly draining for Yuri, and he was already looking wistfully forward to the end of the day and soaking his feet before he had even started his final class. It was only when his Junior Ballet students filed rowdily into the studio, though, that Yuri realized the real challenge had only just begun.  
Yuri had remembered distantly that Junior Ballet had been a handful before Ekaterina, but, as he seemed to constantly be finding today, it was so much worse _now._

Yuri called instructions hopelessly into the bedlam that was a bunch of five to seven-year-olds in leotards and ballet shoes, and murdered his feet further in his attempts to round the children up and get them into their lines so they could warm up. An hour and a half, three tantrums, four sets of tears, and innumerable screams later, Yuri all but cried in mingled pain and relief as the class finally ended, dropping into the chair in Studio C and accepting his imminent death. 

His imminent death which, unmercifully, did not come, as the closing chores had to be completed before Victor gave him a ride home and Yuri had not sunk so low as to ask for or accept help.  
When Yuri, at last, arrived in a state not unlike a pile of goo at home, there were only three items on his mental agenda: food, soak his feet, and sleep.

The first, -- _of course,_ because his day hadn’t been awful enough -- was complicated greatly by Otabek’s presence in the kitchen when Yuri entered it. As of yet, Yuri had been able to avoid sharing the kitchen with Otabek, the former eating directly after getting home from the studio and the latter often dining later in the evening. Today, though, Yuri’s exhaustion had rendered him slow and he’d gotten home far later than he normally would, so it really shouldn’t have been such a surprise to find Otabek in the middle of meal-prep when he arrived.

It was, though, and Yuri, who was quite sure that if he didn’t have dinner now he’d fall asleep before he was able to, resigned himself to the fact that he wouldn’t be able to evade Otabek’s presence forever, and made himself known in the kitchen.

Otabek glanced up as Yuri walked in, doing his best to suppress the waddle that was steadily growing harder and harder to force out of his gait.

“How was class?” Otabek asked tentatively, “I noticed that you’re home later than usual.” 

“Fine.” Yuri gave the response he always did, and tried not to wince as a spurt of pain shot through his abdomen. The Preeclampsia symptoms had lessened somewhat, but the sporadic pains in his abdomen remained and seemed to take pleasure in wreaking havoc on his daily activities-- especially when he was feeling particularly worn out. Luckily, though, this jolt was mild and he was able to suppress any facial acknowledgment of it as he made his way to the fridge.

Hopefully, there would be something quick to heat up so Yuri could be on his way, Yuri thought as he opened the fridge door, though he felt his heart sink as he spied the contents.   
Yuri hadn’t cooked in a few weeks, the constant back pain ailing him making cooking a nightmare, and therefore hadn’t replenished his stock of leftovers in the same amount of time. Still, though, he hadn’t thought he’d eaten _all_ of them.

Hopelessly, Yuri scanned the fridge and found it bare of anything he could eat. While in actuality it was highly stocked, Yuri refused to take any of the premade food from within it. He had always been very clear on the fact that he could take care of himself, whatever Preeclampsia said to the contrary, and had therefore outright _refused_ to accept Otabek’s help in any of the household chores. 

While in matters like vacuuming Otabek was able to get around that rule, Yuri staunchly would not accept help in culinary matters, declining Otabek’s offers of sharing whatever he had made for lunch and cooking for himself.

Now was no exception, especially with Otabek in the kitchen with him, and, only slightly wanting to cry, Yuri grabbed several ingredients from the fridge, intending to prepare the fastest, easiest variation of solyanka known to man. 

Seeing that Otabek was using the counter below the cupboards mounted to the walls to prepare whatever he was making, Yuri chose to work at the island, his back to his husband.   
Pulling the cutting board from where several stood on the counter, Yuri caught a whiff of whatever Otabek was making-- shashlik, apparently. 

Yuri had to force himself away, practically salivating at the scent and sight of the beef kabobs, warm and juicy and sauteed beautifully with onion and vegetables surrounding the meat. It was probably just the cravings that came with pregnancy, Yuri decided, but he suddenly wanted them _so badly._ And they were already done, too, Otabek pulling the tray from the oven and stacking the kabobs on a plate. Yuri, ravenous as he was, noticed painfully that Otabek had made far too much shashlik for one person-- easily enough to feed two, likely three, and Yuri knew that Otabek had done it for him, hoping that he’d cave and accept help. 

And it would be so easy too, Yuri’s brain betrayed him, there were so many kabobs: surely, once Otabek left and the leftovers were in the fridge, he wouldn’t notice if Yuri ate a few. _But,_ Yuri reminded his mutinous stomach as he sucked in to contain its growl, it wasn’t about that. Yuri didn’t _need_ help; he could do it himself; he was and would be _fine_ without Otabek, once he left again. 

Yuri’s chain of thought was broken by his stomach emitting a loud, _embarrassing_ growl, and, note to self, sucking in did _not_ work while pregnant. Dammit. 

Otabek glanced over to where Yuri was chopping cabbage to go in his soup, cheeks now flaming red and hair falling forward to hide it.

“Um,” Otabek began, “if you don’t want to wait, there’s plenty of shashlik here-- I made too much.”

_Yes!_

“No,” Yuri gritted his teeth, “I’m making solyanka. Thank you.”

“Oh,” Otabek looked disappointed, Yuri saw out of the corner of his eye, but the former turned quickly to hide it. “Of course. No problem.”

They went back to working in silence, Otabek completing the tray of shashlik with a spread of garlicky sauce over each kabob as Yuri finished chopping potatoes and dumped his ingredients into the pot of broth simmering on the stove.

Yuri had just turned his attention to dicing tomatoes to go in the stew when Preeclampsia decided to rear its ugly head again, and Yuri let out a whoosh of air through his gritted teeth. His exhaustion from the day, the persistent throbbing in his feet, and the unignorable tension in his back made quite enough discomfort to be covering up, especially when he had just barely crossed the halfway point in his recipe and was painfully aware of the fifteen intervening minutes before he could sit down to eat, and, with the Preeclampsia pain taking him by surprise, Yuri momentarily dropped his facade, forgetting that Otabek stood only a few feet away, and put down the knife he was using on the tomatoes, rubbing his abdomen and hanging his head to take deep, slow breaths.

The pain flickered in his face, not as bad as it had been before but severe enough that he had to set a hand on the edge of the island to ground himself, bracing his palm against the marble and closing his eyes, making a concentrated effort to breathe slowly and evenly.

“Yuri?” 

Of course, Otabek had noticed: he always did. 

“Are you alright?” The question was hesitant, as though its owner was afraid of stepping past boundaries but concerned enough to risk it anyway.

“Fine,” Yuri returned, voice just slightly strained, “it’s just the Preeclampsia pain. I’m fine.”

“Can I do anything?” Again, the offer was tentative, afraid to overstep, but Otabek moved a bit closer, coming to stand a few feet behind and to Yuri’s right, though he didn’t touch him. “Why don’t you take a break? I can finish this-- you’ve been on your feet all day.”

“I’m fine.” Yuri’s tone brooked no arguments, and, though the pain still spasmed in his abdomen, he moved from the island, turning his back to Otabek to stir the solyanka still simmering on the stove. Otabek bit his tongue, watching Yuri with no small amount of anxiety, but did as he wished, and left him alone.

***

A few more days following The Paint Incident ™, it was Friday, and, Victor having picked Luci up early for some reason or another, Yuri headed to the home office, mulling over a few adjustments he wanted to make to Beginner Pointe’s program. With Ekaterina’s assistance, the lesson on advanced spins en pointe had gone over fairly well-- only a few stumbles and no broken ankles, not that Yuri had seriously been expecting them. 

Slightly bolstered by this success, Yuri had been contemplating adding in a Pencil Leg Turn to the routine for his students, fairly confident that they’d manage it-- if less than gracefully. 

Still lost in thought, images of turns chasing each other around his brain, Yuri had stepped into the office before he’d fully registered what he’d walked in on. Otabek, sitting at the desk and working on a laptop, headphones on and facing away from the door, startled as Yuri walked in, and Yuri, not having been expecting him, froze where he stood.

“Sorry,” Otabek said immediately, pulling his headphones off, “do you need the room? I can go-- I was just finishing something.”

“No,” Yuri said, a little disoriented at finding Otabek working in the office. When had he gotten home? “I just needed my notebook, I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

“You didn’t,” Otabek was quick to assure him, “I, uh, actually needed to find you. I finished ‘All I Ask of You’” he said, hesitating slightly, “I imagine you want to review it?”

Yuri _really_ hadn’t expected to be confronted with his both husband -- ex-husband? He honestly didn’t know anymore -- _and_ the love song to their failed romance just by walking into the home office. He nodded slowly though, and tried to seem like he had any idea what he was doing at that moment in time. What had he even come in here for, again?

“Yeah,” Yuri replied, “I do.”

As Otabek spun slightly in his chair, trying not to turn his back to Yuri but attempting to cue something up on the screen, Yuri stepped closer to the desk, leaving the middle of the room and coming to stand behind and to Otabek’s right.

Otabek made an odd, spastic movement at Yuri’s motion, as though he was going to stand and offer Yuri his chair but had thought better of it, and hastily tried to cover it up by pointing at something on the screen. 

“I followed everything you wanted done,” he said, gesturing to some arrangement of notes and keys on the screen that Yuri could barely make heads or tails of. “And I added another bridge, too, if that’s okay. I have another version without it if you don’t like it.”

Yuri nodded, and, after waiting a second for a further reaction and being deprived of one, Otabek hit play.

Yuri’s heart swooped. God, had it really only been a few weeks since he’d last listened to this? It felt both like forever ago, and only seconds. 

It was only when the third verse began that Yuri became aware of the eager pounding against the walls of his abdomen, having been too caught up in the whirlwind of emotion that always overcame him when listening to this song to notice. Of course, the baby had caught on. She’d been kicking up a storm ever since she’d first heard _Phantom of the Opera_ and had been even more so after Yuri had stopped working on it. Even now, weeks later, she had yet to give up hope that she’d hear the song again and had continued in terrorizing Yuri’s attempts to sleep to the best of her ability. Yuri shuddered to think what she’d be like as a toddler.

In any case, though, she’d gotten what she’d wanted (if inadvertently so) and was now doing backflips on Yuri’s bladder, apparently overjoyed to hear her favorite song again. 

Out of habit more than anything, Yuri put a hand on his stomach, hoping to soothe her movements so they’d grow a bit less painful, and ran his thumb absentmindedly over it. 

The seventh verse built and it was here that Yuri heard Otabek’s impromptu bridge. He wasn’t well-versed enough in music to be able to articulate exactly _what_ he was hearing, but he knew enough to hear that a harmony line had been threaded in, winding around the two voices and-- oh. That was Otabek’s voice. That was Otabek’s voice on the harmony, quietly lifting and adding to the set melody until the entire stanza flowed around that line. 

Subtly but powerfully, Otabek had changed the song enough to bring emotion out of the hardest of hearts. Yuri thought this might’ve been the best of all of Otabek’s pieces: a display of quiet mastery at work.

The last note built and then fell, trembling vibrato fading out, and Otabek stopped the track, turning in his seat to face Yuri. 

“What do you think?” He asked quietly. And maybe he knew that Yuri was struggling not to cry, not to let what he was sure were his hormones take over and bring him to kneel at emotion’s feet.

“It’s,” _perfect. Painfully, beautifully, heartbreakingly perfect._ “It works.”

Yuri’s voice was flat, if a bit strained, and he looked slightly down, unable to meet Otabek’s eyes for fear of breaking down then and there. 

“Good,” Otabek said, just as quietly as Yuri had; the song had done a number on them both. “I’ll email it to you for your class.”

“Thank you.” Yuri replied, and turned, hopefully not too hastily, to move toward the door. He was gone by the time Otabek noticed the spiral notebook sitting on the desk a few feet away from the keyboard, and Yuri didn’t reply when Otabek called after him.

***

For the rest of the day, the kicking didn’t let up: the baby, having been given a taste of what she apparently so desired, had either been tantruming for more or showing her gratitude by way of her tiny, yet ridiculously powerful, feet-- Yuri wasn’t quite sure which.

Either way, it had been hours and, though she’d grown tired and had taken breaks, the baby was still pounding away on Yuri’s insides as he got ready for bed. 

Dressed only in a raggedy old T-shirt Yuri was steadfastly pretending was _not_ Otabek’s, Yuri eased himself down onto the mattress, slipping his legs under the comforter left peeled back. At 29 weeks pregnant, Yuri’s mobility was severely hindered by the twenty-pound abdomen he was hefting around, his balance a thing of the past and a non-painful back a mere fantasy. 

Shifting over in bed so he could rest his abdomen on the maternity body pillow he’d been forced to acquire, Yuri twisted his arm behind him to switch off the lamp. He was just drifting off to sleep, exhausted from watching Luci and the emotional turmoil that had musically followed it, when--

“Mph,” Yuri, having been nearly asleep, was caught by surprise when a powerful _kick_ landed right beneath his belly button. Yuri let out a little groan of pain as the storm descended-- _of course,_ the baby had woken up. Why could she _never_ sleep at the same time he did?

With a vaguely foreboding feeling about what life would be like once she was born that Yuri’s brain was too sleep-muddled to work out, Yuri ran his hands over his abdomen, stroking it and hoping against hope that his daughter would quiet and let him get back to sleep.

Another vicious kick, this time to the cervix, sent a lightning bolt through Yuri’s body and he let out a hiss of pain, too exhausted to try to be quiet or hide his distress.

Outside in the hallway, Otabek paused. He had just finished brushing his teeth in the bathroom (he’d always been someone who went to bed early, whereas Yuri had been a night owl until adopting the aforementioned habit when he became pregnant, exhaustion driving him to need more sleep) and had been passing the master bedroom to get to the guest room he currently occupied when he’d heard a small whimper from the other side of the door. He stayed still for a moment, listening, and had just decided that he must have heard an animal outside when another, more distinct, hiss came from the bedroom.

Concern mounting, Otabek considered his options. He didn’t want to be invasive or nosy, but ever since Yuri’d been diagnosed (and, honestly, before the Preeclampsia he’d been worried, too) he’d found it difficult to assuage his anxiety for Yuri’s wellbeing. And what if something was wrong? It sounded like Yuri was in pain, especially as another little groan was heard from within the bedroom, and Otabek knew that, even during the best of times, Yuri had been reluctant to ask for help: there was no way he’d tell Otabek if he needed anything now.

Unable to wait any longer, Otabek knocked quietly on the bedroom door. “Yuri?” He called softly, trying to keep the worry from his voice and come off as nonchalant as possible. “Are you alright?” Okay, so maybe he was failing. Sue him.

“I’m fi--” a very sleepy voice answered from the inside, but broke off abruptly with what Otabek _knew_ was some sort of pain.

“Yuri,” Otabek called again, his hand hovering over the doorknob. Would it be intrusive to ask-- “Can I, uh, come in? Just so we can talk more easily?”

A pause on the inside, and Otabek’s heart beat into overdrive. Why had he said that? It was a stupid idea: he _knew_ it had been a stupid idea-- what had he been thinking? Now Yuri was creeped out and probably uncomfortable and--

“Okay.” A small, exhausted voice came from the inside, and all of the air left Otabek with a whoosh.

Slowly, Otabek opened the door, a crack of light from the hall illuminating the darkness-shrouded bedroom and Yuri’s face from where he lay on the bed. Yuri blinked in the bright light, eyes squinting to adjust, and Otabek hurried to shut the door, leaving them wrapped in darkness once more.

On second thought, that might not have been the best idea, standing in the dark with his eventually-ex husband when he was obviously uncomfortable with his presence. Before he got a chance to dwell on that fuck-up, though, Otabek’s attention was drawn by a small, and obviously attemptedly-muffled, breath from the bed.

“I just wanted to ask if you were okay,” Otabek said, hoping not to seem as nervous as he felt, “it sounded like you were in pain.”

“I’m fine,” Yuri answered too quickly, and they both took a second to wince at that. “It’s just the baby,” Yuri amended, voice resigned, “she’s kick--” he groaned quietly, obviously trying and failing to suppress the noise. “--ing.” He finished, and, just for a second, his voice sounded like it used to, like Yuri had bruised himself in practice and, while trying to downplay how bad it was, had been caught out. The thought brought a small smile to Otabek’s lips. “I can’t seem to get her to settle,” Yuri continued, a sigh in his voice, and Otabek was sure that Yuri must’ve been remembering as well, otherwise he never would’ve elaborated as he had.

Otabek nodded sympathetically, though much good it did in the dark, and, as casually as possible, “Can I, um… try?” Otabek gestured vaguely towards Yuri’s abdomen (real useful in the dark, dipshit) and let his gaze fall. 

Wow, he was really trying to get Yuri never to speak to him again, wasn’t he? “I just,” he said quickly, hating himself for even suggesting it. Yuri had given him an inch and he was taking a mile-- Yuri saying that the baby was kicking wasn’t an invitation to ask to touch it! “I read somewhere that, uh, other family members can sometimes help-- or, um, anyone who the baby is accustomed to having nearby.” And there was the nervous babbling. _Great._

The seconds stretched into what seemed like infinitely, and Otabek was about to retract his request, plead insanity and show himself out, when a tiny “Okay,” parted the air.

Trying not to look too relieved that Yuri hadn’t yelled at him to fuck the hell off (though, honestly, had he gotten that reaction out of the monosyllabic, unemoting Yuri, Otabek would’ve been _very_ surprised), Otabek moved slowly over to the bed. He had to lean over it some, as it was a queen (he and Yuri had always slept tangled in each other’s embrace anyway, so they had never needed much space) and Yuri lay on his side, facing him and made farther from the door by Otabek’s-- _the other_ side of the bed.

Trying his best not to make Yuri feel trapped or crowded in, and avoiding outright sitting down, as that might make Yuri feel like Otabek was attempting intimacy to which he had no right, Otabek put his right knee awkwardly on the bed and leaned his weight on it while his left leg remained stretched to the floor. The whole position was really rather precarious, and Otabek put his right hand down on the bedspread to steady himself.

Slowly, making it very apparent what was coming and giving Yuri every opportunity to move away, Otabek stretched out his left hand to where Yuri’s abdomen rested on the maternity pillow Yuri was wrapped around.

Otabek held his breath. He didn’t reasonably know _why,_ but some part of him felt that it was appropriate, and he didn’t really have much choice in the matter anyway-- his lungs seemed to have just stopped working.

Slowly, ever so slowly, his hand shaking slightly, Otabek’s fingers, then palm, made contact with Yuri’s abdomen, the fabric of his T-shirt soft and worn thin under his touch, and Yuri’s skin warm beneath. Otabek was having trouble processing this; Yuri’s abdomen was hard beneath his hand, skin stretched and drawn taut over where the baby grew, with a gentle curve, rounded and full beneath Otabek’s palm. 

A strong kick landed beneath Otabek’s hand and an involuntary smile curved Otabek’s lips. His _daughter._ His _little girl._ And just before Otabek could float off into absolute heaven, Yuri gave a small wince, and Otabek, terrified that he’d hurt him in some way, retracted his hand as though burned. 

Yuri’s reaction was immediate and he gave a tiny cry of pain as, at the loss of contact, the baby kicked _hard,_ hard enough to, even in the dark, visibly raise the skin of Yuri’s abdomen. Yuri’s hand shot out and he grabbed Otabek’s, pressing it again to his abdomen and breathing deeply, painstakingly, as a volley of movements attacked where Otabek’s palm rested, before slowly dying down to friendly, little flutters of curious, excited movement.

Yuri let out a sigh of a breath, eyes shut and looking relieved in the darkness, as the attack on his insides was reduced to a gentle hammering.

They stayed like that for a minute or so, Yuri glorying in the relief and Otabek enchanted by his daughter, touching her for the _first time ever._ All too soon, though, Yuri seemed to come back to himself and realize what was going on, eyes flying open to stare at Otabek, only to be averted an instant later, Yuri’s body filling with tension under Otabek’s touch and his hand, having been keeping Otabek’s in place on Yuri’s abdomen, moving sharply away. 

“Uh,” Yuri mumbled, looking over his own shoulder, as far away from Otabek as possible. “Thanks.”

“No problem,” Otabek replied, equally uncomfortable now, “so, uh, how long should we do this?” Otabek was loathe to remove his hand, to leave the room and likely pretend that this had never happened, to let go of his daughter with the full knowledge that he likely wouldn’t be able to touch her again until after she was born, but Yuri was obviously not happy with his being here, and he wouldn’t make it harder for him by staying any longer than was necessary.

“Probably until she falls asleep,” Yuri answered, a flurry of emotions fighting within him, not in the least _longing_ and something all-too-familiar that he refused to acknowledge. “She’s, uh, still kicking now and she’ll probably get mad if you leave.”

Otabek nodded, he could feel it as she kicked, the little pattering of thumps against his hand. It filled him with a sensation he’d never experienced before, and, even though the atmosphere was so palpably tense, he had to fight a smile as another wallop landed directly beneath his hand. “Okay. So, we’ll wait.”

“Yes, we’ll wait.” Yuri agreed with a short nod.

They stayed there for a bit, both pretending not to be as uncomfortable as they were, and, eventually, Otabek shifted slightly, readjusting his position; his right arm was going numb.  
Yuri, to Otabek’s abject horror, noticed immediately. “You can, uh, relax if you want.” his voice was forcibly level, if a bit strained.

Otabek, deciding a verbal response would likely make the entire situation more painful, just nodded (Yuri, so close in the darkness, could see him-- that was, he could if he turned his head from where he was still trying to pull an Exorcist and look as far away from Otabek as possible, his own shoulder be damned).

Repositioning carefully, Otabek ended up, not lying down, but with his body and legs forming an obtuse angle, the former propped up on the pillows, and his hand in its customary position upon Yuri’s abdomen. Relaxed like this, the exhaustion of the day hit Otabek full force, and he became acutely aware of the danger of reclining as he was. He made a conscious effort to stay aware, his thumb rubbing aimless, looping patterns into the warm flesh of Yuri’s abdomen. Yuri went rigid at this at first, but, after a few, tense moments where neither of them moved and Otabek was too afraid to stop, grew accustomed to the admittedly nice sensation, and was able to relax his body.

More than relax his body, actually, as Yuri realized dimly a little later. With his head finally in a natural position (slumped on his left shoulder) and his body loose and warm under his husband’s gentle ministrations, his eyes were fluttering shut, and, though somewhere, far off, he knew that he shouldn’t let himself drift off, he was weak to the bliss of it now, and fought no battles, allowing himself to fall happily into sleep.

***

Yuri woke slowly, peacefully, warm and content in the quiet of the morning. For the first time in months, neither nausea nor borderline-sadistic kicking plagued him, and he drifted in and around the edges of sleep, lulled and comfortable for the first time in what seemed ages. It was only when Yuri felt willing to open his eyes, that reality set in.

It seemed about mid-morning, if the way the light streamed through the white, gauzy curtains and gently illuminated the room was any indication. For a moment, Yuri was confused that he’d woken by himself-- where was his alarm? And then he realized that it was Saturday, and that the next 48 hours were work-free, though he had been invited (forced into) going to the Katsuki-Nikiforovs’ for dinner that night. He wondered vaguely if Otabek had been invited too, though it seemed unlikely. Victor had been so mad at him recently for no-- oh. Oh. _Otabek._

And Yuri’s eyes, which had been drifting shut again, unseeing, snapped open like someone had electrocuted him. Otabek, in the night. Otabek, touching his abdomen. Otabek, in his bed.

_Otabek in his bed._

And with horror crashing over him and threatening to drag him into the cold, unforgiving undertow, Yuri realized that his head wasn’t safely resting on his own shoulder anymore. It had, apparently during the night, traveled to lie nestled into _Otabek’s chest._

Yuri raised his head carefully, fairly certain that his husband/lover/ex/whoever the fuck he was, was still asleep, and took in how they laid together.

Yuri’s head was on Otabek’s chest, his abdomen resting on Otabek’s pelvis, somehow having moved itself off of the maternity pillow that was now squished down by their legs. Otabek had one hand still resting on Yuri’s abdomen, and the other wrapped around him, holding him protectively in a close embrace, while Yuri’s right hand curled into the former’s chest.

Now more than awake, Yuri felt his throat tightening, unwelcome emotions and memories hitting him like waves, buffeting his body and infusing the unrelenting need to _escape_ into the forefront of his mind.

This was _too much,_ so far past too much that Yuri couldn’t even begin to think of a classification that befit it. This wasn’t real, wasn’t supposed to be happening. It had been 152 days since Yuri had last shared a bed with his husband, 156 since his side of the bed had last been occupied, and in all that time Yuri had never once touched that side of the mattress, only ever going as far as to smooth the covers over it when he made his side of the bed each morning. The shock of finding it occupied again, of finding himself curled up with his husband, as though nothing had happened, as though they were still happy and in love and blissfully, excitedly expecting a baby, was too much to bear.

Yuri could take a lot of things. He could take living in the same house as the man who had forsaken him; he could take the snide remarks on the state of his marriage from the children at the dance studio; he could even take the _constant_ reminder that he was to be alone in the form of his daughter _begging_ to hear that song that caused him so much pain, but this, waking up in the way that he’d so dreamed of, that he’d _prayed_ he would and that everything over that last five months had been some terrible nightmare, that he would wake up in Otabek’s arms and be kissed and held and assured that it would all be okay, was something he couldn’t handle.

Tears welled in Yuri’s eyes as, carefully, he tried to extricate himself from Otabek’s hold, roll over so he could escape the confines of this bed and all that could’ve been but wasn’t. Pushing Otabek’s hand off his stomach, suddenly nauseous at the otherwise tender sight, and trying to subtly lift himself off of Otabek’s body, Yuri held in the tears desperate to cascade down his face and force him into the act he promised himself every time that he was done committing. Yuri’s hands shook as he unwrapped Otabek’s arm from around his waist, trying not to wake him and make everything worse, and he let out a quiet, little gasp as they only encircled him more tightly.

Otabek, evidently roused by Yuri’s actions despite his caution, blinked hazily, and his eyes grew wide once he registered the position he and Yuri were in. Far from scrambling away, though, a smile curled at the edges of his lips, hope and unadulterated _joy_ filling his eyes. His eyes which, only a second later, found Yuri’s and immediately filled with concern. 

“Yuri,” he murmured immediately, and tried to pull him closer, to comfort him, to hold him and reassure him, and it was all _too much._ This wasn’t the dream. This wasn’t what Yuri _so desperately wanted it to be._ Nothing could be what he hoped for and it all _hurt._

Yuri pulled away, breaths coming more quickly than he’d like as he tried to hold onto some semblance of composure, even as he felt it slipping through his grasping fingers more quickly than the sands of a beach in Barcelona.

“No,” Yuri whispered, desperately reigning in the impulse to fucking _claw_ his way out of Otabek’s hold, and slowly, deliberately, pulled away. Otabek, for his part, upon realizing that Yuri wanted _out,_ immediately let him go, backing off.

The second the arms that had bound him receded, Yuri moved away from Otabek, shuffling awkwardly across the bed, eyes downcast to hide the tears filling them, and abdomen, as ever, weighing him down and making his motions jerky and uncoordinated.

“I’m sorry,” and even though Yuri refused to look at him out of blurry eyes, Yuri could _see_ the pain and regret and overwhelming _disappointment_ painted across Otabek’s face. Yuri kept his gaze down, his hair falling forward to shield his face, and mentally thanked for it when the first few tears fought free of his eyes and slipped down his face. “I must have fallen asleep…”

Yuri just nodded, and inched backward across the mattress, away from Otabek.

Otabek noticed.

When he spoke, his voice was pained, “I’ll-- I’ll just go, then…” He trailed off, as though he were hoping that Yuri would contradict him, tell him to _stay._ Yuri wouldn’t: he’d sworn to himself that he would _never_ ask that. Never again.

“Yes,” Yuri’s voice was quiet, strained, struggling to get past the blockade in Yuri’s throat. “I think that would be best.” As much as he tried to harden his voice, to be impervious, to let it all bounce off him as he had done for so many months, he couldn’t: his voice shook, laced audibly with unshed tears.

Otabek paused, was very still, silent, and Yuri could hear his internal battle of wills. _Stay, or go?_ And then a small intake of breath, the mattress rose, and heavy, sad footsteps creaked across the floor; the door opened before--

“Yura…” At the name, the _name,_ the one only Otabek was allowed to call him, the sound which he’d been yearning for for months, the one he thought he’d never hear again, a quiet sob wrenched itself free from Yuri’s chest, tearing out of his throat and into the open air. Pitiful.

_“Please,”_ Yuri’s voice shook, cracked, and, slowly, the door shut.

Yuri gripped the pillow, and cried.

***

It was over an hour until Yuri left his bedroom that morning, and when he appeared in the kitchen, no mention was made of what had happened, of the sobs that had to have been audible drifting from Yuri’s room. 

Later, Yuri went to dinner, and the subject was buried.

***

For the next few days, Yuri was unable to sleep, both due to insomnia and the baby’s renewed kicking. The irony of it all was that during the night spent with Otabek, Yuri had slept better than he had in months. He refused to consider why.

In the desperation brought on from four nights of near-sleeplessness, though, Yuri began to rack his brain for how that one night had helped not only him but _the baby_ sleep well. Yuri tried music, and learned that a nightly rendition of “All I Ask of You”, just before bed, would settle the baby enough to enable Yuri to get to sleep. 

Deep down, he knew it wasn’t what the baby, what either of them, truly wanted, but what other option did he have?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is it possible to hear the disappointment of another? I think so: I can hear all of yours right now.  
> That scene (and you all _better_ know which scene I’m talking about) was one of the very first I came up with for this story. I really hope I did it justice. ♥
> 
> I would really love to hear what you guys thought of this chapter, and I greatly appreciate any and every comment given. ♥
> 
> **NEXT UPDATE: AUGUST 21ST**


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Can I just start this chapter by saying an emphatic _thank you_ to all of my commenters! Over the past few chapters, you guys have been so kind to me and have been sharing your thoughts, theories, and views with me, and I appreciate that so much. For all of my new commenters who only began to comment over the most recent chapters, to all of my silent readers, and, most of all, to my consistent commenters who, without fail, write to me with every chapter (you know who you are), this story is for you. 
> 
> So, I’ve received many comments lately theorizing about what happened with The Kiss ™ and trying to figure out how Otabek remained (hopefully!!) innocent during it, and with that have had several people request an Otabek POV chapter. Well, while I can’t promise an exclusively Otabek’s POV chapter (let’s be honest-- I probably couldn’t write 3rd person limited if my life depended on it), I CAN promise that, with this chapter, the mystery will finally be solved! In this chapter, the truth comes out about The Kiss ™ and what really did happen! I hope you guys are satisfied with the grand reveal! Enjoy!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 7 Recap: Victor and Otabek assemble the nursery and the latter ends up covered in paint because Victor refused to tell him if the can was closed or not. Yuri has a really bad day and ends up having to share the kitchen with Otabek while making dinner, and, _again,_ refuses his help. Yuri accidentally walks in on Otabek finishing altering "All I Ask of You" in the home office and they listen to it together; the baby goes wild and Yuri struggles not to cry. Finally, the baby refuses to stop kicking Yuri that night, and, some way or another, Otabek offers his assistance and they end up lying together on Yuri's (their) bed, pretending not to miss each other. Inevitably, they fall asleep, Otabek gets kicked out in the morning, and we get even _more_ (as if it's necessary) mental anguish from poor Yuri. Yuri eventually gives in to the baby's demands, and starts playing "All I Ask of You" every night before bed for her.
> 
> ****VERY IMPORTANT, PLEASE READ****
> 
> In this chapter, harm to a pregnant individual occurs and the possibility of a miscarriage is mentioned. If this may be upsetting for you, I recommend that you read up to the asterisks preceding "It was like deja vu." and continue at the asterisks preceding "It was only once they got to the...". I'll summarize the events missed in the end notes, though I'm sure they can be inferred. Thank you.

Yuri’s day had barely even begun, and he already wanted to go home. Ever since waking up that morning, he’d known that it was going to be a bad day-- however much he tried to seem unbothered. Everything was just… more difficult. Waking up alone, the absence of warm breath on the back of his neck while he brushed his teeth, even getting dressed and stretching the fabric of his shirt over his baby bump was more arduous than usual that morning. 

Breakfast might’ve been the worst. They were both aware of what day it was, painfully aware, the writing on the cat-picture calendar winking at them from where it hung on the wall in the silent kitchen, the accompanying little heart mocking. 

Neither of them mentioned it: in fact, neither of them said a word-- not even short good mornings were uttered. They pretended that everything was normal, a sick, twisted game that, today especially, was beyond ludicrous because what the hell _was_ normal anymore?

When Victor arrived to pick Yuri up, it was with relief that he left his husband’s presence and sought relief in the haven of the studio. Ignoring Victor’s sledgehammer-subtle attempts to emphasize what a lovely day it was, his intentions in doing so unclear to Yuri, by the time they got to the studio Yuri was desperate for class to start and drive the rest of the world away.

***

If a brief respite from the hell that today already was was what Yuri had been expecting, it was the polar opposite that he received. It was Tuesday, one of the two days that had apparently decided his life was too easy and consequently did everything in their 24 hours’ power to change that, and he had four scheduled classes to teach -- along with the daily studio chores -- before he would be free to crawl into bed and hide from the world. A concept which, honestly, was incredibly appealing.

Yuri threw himself into his first class of the day, Off-Ice Figure, and made a concentrated effort to devote his mind entirely to its teaching, and, though his thoughts occasionally wandered back to the several subjects he was determinedly _not_ thinking about, he was mostly successful. During Senior Pointe, too, did he manage to (for the most part) keep his mind on his students. It was only when Advanced Lyrical rolled around that Yuri’s plan was completely and utterly foiled.

The class ran through warm-ups, as usual, and spent some time drilling disjointed sections of their dance that were deemed substandard, and it was only at the tail-end of class, only fifteen minutes or so remaining, that Yuri’s personal atomic bomb was dropped.

“Excuse me, Yuri?” Alexei raised his hand as Yuri clapped his hands and called his students to stop. Yuri looked over. “I was just wondering,” Alexei began, voice pleasant enough to either be a backhanded compliment to one of his other dancers or yet another remark of the asshole variety. “But I thought you said that Otabek finished the music-- that we could dance to it today?”

Ekaterina, out of the corner of Yuri’s eye, hissed slightly and shot Alexei a minute middle finger while, at the same time, her face remained impressively impassive-- indeed, had Yuri himself not been so adept at both sending and receiving hidden ‘fuck you’s under Lilia’s eagle eye, he likely would not have caught the gesture at all.

Ekaterina’s reaction to Alexei’s question was in the minority, though, and the rest of the class looked up at Yuri eagerly, practically clamoring to hear and perform to their infamous music for the first time. One glance around at his expectant students and Yuri kissed his attempts at distracting himself goodbye, nodding resignedly at his class, and a cheer erupted from the majority of them.

“Yes,” Yuri said, as he slowly moved over to the music station to cue up the song he’d had sitting on his phone for weeks, “I did. Places!” Yuri clapped his hands once and the teens of his class scattered; Studio C was, for a moment, alight with movement before all was still. Yuri did not miss Ekaterina’s sour expression before she morphed her face back into its performance mask, taking her position. 

Yuri made it back to the front of the room in the three-second time delay before the music started, and had just enough time to suppress a wince at the bright, reflected light from the mirror before the music began.

Slowly, in waves, the class began to move. A girl, center stage, lifted her chin as she straightened her back where she knelt, hunched over herself, arms crossed over her chest, and brought her right arm with her as she slowly rose to sit up straight, letting it float up until it was floating over, following the newly convex arch of her back. With a calculated, sweeping motion, her right knee came out from under her, traveling with her until she faced the opposite wall, her right leg extended and pointed as she rested her weight on the left. 

Around her, the company began to move, people lifting out of poses and moving through pseudo-solo counts, everyone doing something different, and whirling around her as she remained in place, eyes glazed and cloudy, figure still.

Then, one boy, Dmitri, moved out of the ranks of lone dancers, and, with a few great jetes, came to stand at Inna(the lead girl)’s right side. He extended an arm to her, and when she did not respond, transitioned into an arabesque, his right leg steadily moving higher through the air until it was level with his forehead, and only then did he brush his fingers over Inna’s, and she woke, seemingly, from a trance. 

Inna, as though following Dmitri’s invitation, lifted herself (and it looked as if by magic) from kneeling to standing, her right leg remaining stretched outward the entire time, until, at last, it rose to twist behind her body and mirror Dmitri’s pose, her arabesque level with her head as her body tilted toward Dmitri’s, questions dancing in her eyes. The company remained in motion around them, but rather than detract from the moment of stillness, they added to it, their choreography winding and looping, giving the onlooker the impression of conflicting emotions. As one girl leaped, another fell into a rolling fan kick, everything moving in perfect harmony, clashing in all the right ways. 

In the midst of all of this chaos, Inna, who, as of yet, had been staring into Dmitri’s eyes, her own wide and inquiring, the hint of a smile on her lips, jolted. She fell from her releve, her free leg lowering slowly as she looked around her, only then becoming aware that she and Dmitri were not alone. Dmitri, sensing this unsureness, moved from his arabesque and, hand in hers, came to stand before her, reassuring. 

After a moment of hesitation, Inna went back up onto the ball of her foot and allowed herself to be guided in a turn by Dmitri, her free leg, having stilled at his movement, rising again until she was in a standing split. 

A boy swept by the couple then, a grand jete ended by him landing on his knee and rolling back up to his feet carrying him before and past them, and Inna, whose face had gradually been relaxing while focused on Dmitri, followed the boy with her eyes, jerking suddenly away from her partner. Leaping quickly, apparently haphazardly, after the boy who’d brought her back to reality, Inna twirled and turned through the dancers, the few who had been bright and cheerful barring her way and those who had been watching her encounter with Dmitri with jealous eyes flocking around her and spurring her on.

Dmitri, in all of this time, danced a softer, but no less urgent, version of Inna’s motions behind her, buffeted again and again by the dancers who seemed to be growing in number and who formed a wall around Inna.

Inna at last caught up with the boy she sought in the center of the floor, posed in an opposite arabesque to the one she’d performed earlier with Dmitri, face lost and distressed, and she reached both arms toward the unnamed but unmistakable boy. And then Dmitri was there, the company dancers spinning and flitting around him, seemingly tearing at him as he reached out to Inna, pulling her away from the boy.

Inna let herself be led away, but time and time again through the dance she migrated to the center of the floor, always following the boy with the jealous features and cunning smile, always falling into his trap and finding herself on the precipice of his embrace before Dmitri reached her, and pulled her back. Each time this latter thing happened, some of the clouds would clear from Inna’s face, and she would sweep away without any hesitation; the longer she danced with Dmitri, the more she seemed relieved. But still, her eyes followed the boy, and the second he curled his fingers, she was once again under his torment, and streaked away from her love, following her captor into the center of the stage. 

But, after too long a battle, Inna, whose eye had again been caught by the boy who would not, would _never_ let her go, slowed her movements from the frenzied, uncontrollable rush to get to him, to a calmer, elegant waltz in the wake of his path. When, this time, she arrived in the center of the stage, she didn’t arabesque, she didn’t kneel-- she spun. Fouette after fouette after fouette she turned and when, at last, Inna drew out of the sequence, she found Dmitri at her side, watching her with eyes crinkled at the corners. 

Slowly, ever so slowly, they both moved, hands reaching out and fingers entwining as they rose once more to their twin arabesques. The music faded out with the two leads in their beginning positions and the boy who could not let Inna go crouching at her left side, reaching out to grasp her ankle, his hand far out of his reach. Inna’s eyes were focused on Dmitri’s, and the boy was pushed aside, though never forgotten.

Yuri realized, with a jolt of swirling emotion, that the dance was done. Yuri swallowed, his breath not seeming to reach his lungs as his vision blurred.

“Good,” he said to his students, who were slowly coming out of their ending poses. They turned to look at him, expecting to be corrected and to continue hammering out the details for their last ten minutes of class, but, fuck, _not here._ “You are dismissed for the day; begin cool-down stretches.”

Yuri left. 

He strode across the room, looking straight ahead, and held his breath as it threatened to rattle. He walked right past the front desk, ignored the calls from Yuuri, and made a beeline for his office. The dam broke the second the door closed behind him.

Yuri gasped, tears flooding his vision and making blurry shapes of his desk and filing cabinet; his fingers fumbled desperately with the lock on the door behind him. They, like the rest of him, though, were trembling, and he soon gave up his attempts to martial them and allowed his arms to wrap around himself, stretching as far as they could go around his abdomen in what would be a comforting embrace. His hands only reached a little past his belly button on both sides, but still, he clung on as the sobs wracked his body, kicks vibrating up to join the wreckage of what used to be Yuri from within his abdomen.

Yuri managed to fumble his way to the desk, collapsing heavily into the chair and burying his face in his hands, elbows propped up on the wood. Yuri held his breath, hoping to stop the flow of tears, but at last committed himself to the fact that his sobs wouldn’t stop any time soon, and used the last, small part of his mind that wasn’t rendered completely overcome by anguish to try his best to stay quiet, hoping not to be overheard.

And he had thought that he’d be able to distract himself today, Yuri thought bitterly-- what a joke that had been. It had taken one class, one carefully choreographed routine, one _fucking_ love song, and everything that had made up the shell of what used to be Yuri Plisetsky-Altin came crumbling down, dissolving into the dust that gathered on the studio mirrors.

He would’ve been _fine._ He would’ve made it through the day had it not been for the song. Yuri wanted, _desperately_ wanted to blame his hormonal, irrational, overly-emotional brain for his breakdown, but, in that last, logical, little part of his mind, he knew that wasn’t true. Maybe when Yuri teared up looking at a picture of a bear in an advertisement, or when that stupid Statefarm commercial came on with the singer/songwriter dude in the cowboy hat, or when Yuri found an extra portion of food he hadn’t made in the fridge, or maybe even when his daughter kicked her delight at what had once been her parents’ song _every night,_ he could pass it off as hormones, but not today. 

Today, it was real. This time was the one time Yuri could admit to himself that he missed him, because today was the one day he had the _right_ to miss him. Today, and only today, he was allowed to mourn his loss.

A quiet, hesitant knock on the door came and Yuri looked up, roughly scrubbing his hands over his face to at least make a dent in the tear streaks he knew would be there.

“Yes?” Yuri called, a gasp in his voice as he tried to steady it.

“Sorry,” Ekaterina’s timid voice came from the other side, slightly slurred as though she was biting her lip, “um, the Junior Ballet class is starting now. I wouldn’t have bothered you, but one of the moms has a question.” 

Had it already been that long?

“Yes,” Yuri managed, using all of his strength to toughen his voice, though it still sounded painfully strained, even to his own ears. “Thank you. I’ll be right there.”

The sound of receding footsteps from the door, and Yuri took a deep, rattling breath. He stood from his desk, took up a box of tissues, and walked across the room. He stopped just before the door, looking into the tiny mirror he had hung on the wall. His eyes were red; his face was white; Yuri dried his tears: his time to cry had passed.

***

Yuri was 34 weeks pregnant, and, apparently, his sleep cycle was out to get him. For once, he didn’t really have anything to blame it on: the baby had, after listening to her nightly rendition _Phantom of the Opera,_ let him sleep, he hadn’t woken up more than his normal twice to use the bathroom in the night, and his alarm was in perfect working order, but, for some reason, Yuri was just _exhausted,_ and had overslept. _Again._

Stumbling through his morning routine, Yuri’s haste was encumbered heavily by his abdomen which had grown significantly since his last mad dash to get to the studio on time. Yuri waddled into the bathroom, cringing ruefully at the memory of what that day had yielded, and made quick (as quick as was currently possible, anyway) work of stripping out of his pajamas and getting into the shower. It was only when Yuri’s bare feet touched the cool, mock-ivory tile of the bathroom floor that Yuri remembered he’d forgotten to take the carpeted bath mat out of the dryer the night previous. With a sigh, Yuri shook his head, resolving to do it when he got home from the studio.

Yuri stepped under the warm spray of the shower and let out another little sigh, this one in bliss, though, as the eternally tight muscles in his back loosened slightly under the caress of the water. Yuri washed as quickly as he dared and was just rinsing his hair of conditioner when his phone pinged on the edge of the sink-- Victor. 

Yuri swore quietly as he shoved his head beneath the showerhead and scrubbed more roughly than he normally would have, hasty to get outside to Victor’s waiting car. He’d known that he was late but he hadn’t thought he was _that_ late. 

Switching off the water, Yuri bent to grab his towel from where it had fallen from the rod of the shower curtain. Bracing himself on the wall, Yuri carefully lowered himself into an awkward sort of squat, reaching blindly down for the towel, vision impeded by his rotund abdomen. Catching the fabric in his fingers, Yuri eased himself back up to a standing position, and, after sending a quick text to Victor to wait five minutes, dried himself and managed to get dressed in record time. 

By the time Yuri slid into the passenger seat of Victor’s car, ten-ish minutes later, he was dressed, though his hair was still wet, and he had a banana in his bag for later. Victor eyed him as he got in, concern etching itself into his brow at the sight of Yuri’s unusually disheveled appearance. 

“Is everything alright?” He asked carefully before his expression darkened and an aggressive tone colored the concern in his voice, “Did Otabe--”

“I woke up late,” Yuri said, preemptively silencing Victor’s ready stream of accusations and insults towards Yuri’s husband. “Sorry, I hope I haven’t made you late.” 

Victor, picking up on Yuri’s distraction, nodded slowly and started the car, moving away from the pavement and out into the street beyond, though not before offering the house and Otabek within it a distrustful glare.

***

That night, Yuri returned home with an exhaustion very nearly equal to his hunger and the aching of his feet. After arriving late to the studio, Yuri had scrambled to get everything ready in time for his first class, and hadn’t been able to eat his meager imitation of a breakfast until the day was half done and he was eating his lunch with it. Naturally, too, the Junior Ballet class had been particularly rowdy that afternoon so, even with Ekaterina’s help, they had been exceptionally difficult to manage.

With the chaos of the day dealt with and done, though, Yuri all but collapsed into a kitchen chair, letting out a quiet groan as his aching feet were finally relieved. Yuri was very tempted to simply not get up even once he’d finished eating dinner-- to allow himself to just fall asleep (or die, whichever came first) in the chair and never stand up again. Even as he distractedly considered it, though, Yuri’s feet gave a throb that reminded him the only way to truly achieve at least a temporary relief, was to soak them, and, in doing so, complete the nightly ritual he’d adopted in recent weeks. 

Wincing slightly as he stood, Yuri put his plate in the sink, intending to wash it later, and trekked out of the kitchen, passing Otabek in the hallway as the latter made his way into the room to prepare his dinner. Otabek followed Yuri with a glance as he crossed the threshold, wincing sympathetically at Yuri’s obvious discomfort. 

Reaching the stairs, Yuri felt eyes on him, and turned as Otabek, realizing he had been caught, quickly retreated into the kitchen, any trace of subtlety absent from his movements. Yuri allowed himself a few minutes to ponder this, and only once he reached the top of the stairs did he realize that he’d been waddling, a hand on his lower back and another on the heaviest part of his abdomen, having forgotten to force the aforementioned gait out of his movements in his shattered state. His embarrassment over the matter was driven clean out of Yuri’s mind, though, when he ventured into the bathroom and leaned down to turn on the warm water in the tub. 

Sitting on a stool by the edge of the bath, shoes and socks painstakingly and gymnastically having been removed, Yuri dipped his feet into the wonderfully balmy water and sighed blissfully. As the soothing warmth lapped at Yuri’s swollen ankles, Yuri let himself relax into the wall behind his stool, lulling on the edges of sleep. Here, then, if he couldn’t pass out at the kitchen table-- he was technically soaking his feet, so he couldn’t say that he was forsaking his temporary relief. But then his back twinged at his strange positioning, legs thrown over the side of the tub, Yuri balanced rather precariously on a stool leaning against the wall, his abdomen resting on his thighs, and he resisted the temptation. 

Yuri tried briefly to lean down and massage his sore feet in the soothing heat of the water, but abandoned the attempt when his hand barely reached level with his knee from his position leaning over his abdomen. He’d have to settle for just the water, he supposed, dismissing the pursuit, though he couldn’t stop a pang of longing at the thought of a foot rub.

Yuri remained on his perch a while longer, only spurring his body to motion when his back began to join the chorus of aches and pains that made up his body, and he accepted that his time in the bathroom was no longer. 

Yuri braced himself against the wall as he carefully leaned back, lifting his knee and getting one foot over the rim of the tub. The same process was enacted with the other and Yuri managed to shift enough to unstopper the plug and let the bath drain. His wet feet met the cool, tile floor and Yuri remembered that he had once again forgotten to put the bath mats in place. 

One hand carefully holding the edge of the bathtub and the other steadying him against the wall, Yuri planted his feet beneath him, preparing to stand. 

***

It was like deja vu. Otabek stood at the kitchen counter, washing the dishes left in the sink before Yuri got a chance to, and, when he heard it, dropped a mug into the low, foamy water. The mug shattered, but Otabek was not focused on that now.

Strange, it seemed, in hindsight, that, the first time, the false alarm, Otabek completely and utterly panicked over a maybe. Even stranger that, the second time, Otabek was calm; steady.

Maybe it was _because_ the first time had been a maybe, Otabek would later contemplate-- when scenarios were open-ended, the possible results were much scarier. That was what fear was-- the lack of knowledge, the possibilities of what lurked in the dark. The first time, Otabek’s heart had beat a mile a minute, his thoughts fragmented and incoherent with fear, with the _maybe_ that haunted the nightmares of all expectant parents. None of that happened this time. This time, Otabek just turned off the water in the sink, put down the sponge he had been using, and made his way quickly upstairs. There was no uncertainty now: Otabek _knew_ what had happened.

***

When Otabek found Yuri sprawled on the bathroom floor, his left arm struggling to support himself and keep the weight off of his abdomen, he wasted no time in moving to his side, crouching next to him as Yuri stared at his face, horror in his eyes. His right arm was curled around his abdomen, holding it protectively as his breaths came in ragged, little gasps. 

“Can you move?” Otabek asked, his voice steady even as fear washed over him. He would stay calm though-- for Yuri, who, if the little whimper that had just slipped from his lips was anything to go by, was beside himself. “Does anything feel hurt?”

Shakily, Yuri shook his head, and accepted the careful arm around his upper back, the hand on his abdomen. Yuri winced as Otabek began to help him up and Otabek grimaced, apologetic, before righting him.

Otabek kept a steadying arm around Yuri down the stairs, slipping sandals on for him before they left. It wasn’t necessary to speak; they both knew where they were going. 

Yuri wrapped his arms around his abdomen as he eased himself down into the passenger seat, running his hands over his belly endlessly and staring listlessly out the window. It was raining, and the tear tracks on his face were mirrored in the stormy sky.

***

It was only when they got to the ER that the full scope of the situation hit Otabek, and he finally accessed that heart stopping, pulse-racing, fully contradictory but infinite _terror_ that had eluded him while focusing on Yuri. It took more willpower than Otabek had known he possessed to stop himself from openly crying or taking Yuri’s hand from where he lay in an Emergency Room bed. 

Centuries washed over them before a doctor appeared, pushing through the privacy curtain set up around Yuri’s bed and the seat next to it.

“Yuri Plisetsky-Altin?” He asked and Otabek nodded, Yuri’s hands just tensed on his abdomen. “It says here that you had a fall? Came in to get checked out?” Yuri nodded himself this time, and the doctor gave him a small, gentle smile. “Okay,” he said, “let’s see Baby.”

It was only hesitantly that Yuri removed his hands from his abdomen when the doctor asked him, and, looking thoroughly lost with what to do with them but unable to _not_ caress his belly at the moment, Yuri cupped the base of it with his right hand and the very top with his left, narrowly avoiding the blue, ultrasound goo.

The world stopped when the doctor placed the wand on Yuri’s stomach. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Otabek was more than ready to pass out when a steady, rhythmic thumping filled the air. 

Yuri let out a cry of relief as his eyes filled with tears again, fixed unblinkingly on the screen that showed the baby wiggling as he felt it from within. Otabek, likewise, was completely incapable of anything other than letting out a gasp-like breath of air in relief, focussed similarly on the screen.

The doctor smiled at them and gently squeezed Yuri’s shoulder. “Your baby girl is perfectly healthy,” he said, and waited a minute or so until both parents had recovered themselves enough to be able to hear anything besides that whooshing thumping that had just saved both of their lives. “Now,” he said, turning to Yuri, “whenever we get a patient in the ER, we like to briefly go through their history, make sure everything’s okay, you know.” Yuri and Otabek both nodded and the former finally ripped his gaze from the monitor. “It says here that you’re 34 weeks pregnant and have been diagnosed with Preeclampsia-- is that correct?” Yuri and Otabek both nodded again, neither fully up to speech so soon. The doctor had apparently dealt with enough traumatized soon-to-be parents not to be phased, and moved along without comment. “How is everything going?” he asked, “Have you visited your OBGYN for a checkup recently?”

“My appointment’s tomorrow,” Yuri seemed to have found his voice. “Why?”

“I was wondering if your doctor has spoken to you about activity restriction, or modified bedrest, at all?” The doctor said, “It’s quite common with Preeclampsia patients in late term-- especially in severe cases like your own.”

“No,” Yuri said, eyebrows knitting together, “what is that? Is there something wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” the doctor said firmly, and Yuri visibly calmed, “reviewing your notes, it’s an option I’d recommend for you, though.” Otabek nodded, recognizing that the doctor was probably right-- in his research MBR had been prescribed for a good percentage of patients. “Activity restriction, or modified bed rest,” the doctor continued, “is essentially what it says: with this treatment, you would spend the majority of your day resting, either in bed or on the couch, and, while you could still practice some low-stress exercises, do some light housework, maybe work from home, depending on your job, you would leave most of the chores and cooking to your husband.” He glanced at Otabek, who nodded. “It would be prescribed for the remainder of your pregnancy, necessitating you to start your maternity leave a bit early, and the goal would be to help you carry to term, since Preeclampsia pregnancies often make that difficult.

“I’d recommend it for that reason as well as the fact that Preeclampsia cases have been known to have serious complications in late term, especially when the mother is working too hard or not getting adequate rest. While doctors are moving away from the notion of bedrest, I think that it would be the safest option for both you and your baby, and I’d like to ask that you talk to your OB about it at your next appointment. Realistically, the sooner the treatment could be put in practice, the better.”

Otabek nodded; Yuri looked rather overwhelmed. “Would he be able to walk around the block occasionally? It’s been proven to be a good way to stay healthy while on bed rest, right? And since it’s not strict bed rest, according to what I've read, it wouldn’t be a problem?” 

The doctor nodded, “Yes, short, daily walks, maybe walking the dog or with another child, are one of the best ways to maintain the muscles needed for birth and caring for Baby later, during pregnancy. It would also help if you two kept a set schedule for day-to-day activities, fixed times for Yuri to rest, eat, work, etc. It’s a successful tool for patients who implement it.” 

Otabek nodded again, glancing at Yuri, who apparently had started actively listening to the doctor’s words and was now echoing Otabek’s motions.

“Now, unless you two have any questions, I’d like to let you get home, Yuri,” when neither Yuri nor Otabek presented him with a question he just smiled and offered Yuri a wipe to clean the gel off of his abdomen. “I’ll give the nurse my recommendation for your file, and don’t forget to talk to your doctor,” he said as he stepped back through the curtain. “Have a good night!”

“You too,” Otabek called after him, before turning to look at Yuri, who was smoothing his shirt over his abdomen. Yuri accepted Otabek’s help in sitting up from the bed, and when they got home, went straight to sleep.

The next day at Yuri’s appointment, his OB agreed with the ER doctor’s assessment and officially put Yuri on modified bed rest. 

At least, Otabek thought as he drove them home, now Yuri would finally have to accept some help.

***

When Otabek had initially proposed that he inform Victor and Yuuri about the doctor’s treatment plan, he’d done it with the knowledge that it would be hard. He’d suggested it anyway, though, because any fool with eyes could see how exhausted Yuri was just about all of the time now, and, finally with an excuse for him to stay in bed, Otabek intended to keep him there.

He’d known that telling Victor and Yuuri (really, just Victor) would be difficult and arduous, and that, more likely than the sun rising in the East, Victor would be as much of an asshole about it as possible, probably even try to start an argument. He _hadn’t_ known that he would be drawn in as easily as he was.

Maybe it was because the stress of the day before had gotten to him; maybe it was because he was even more worried about Yuri than usual and his nerves were stretched thin; maybe it was because all of the months of abuse from Victor had finally overcome his composure and need for punishment; for whatever reason, though, Otabek lost his temper, and set Victor’s entire world on its side.

“I bet you just _love_ having him trapped here,” Victor spat, glaring at Otabek. “Kept captive by _you,_ stuck in bed all day while you force your company on him.”

They had gone through the essentials of modified bed rest at least three times already, and Victor had started four fights and counting-- the last one (over the subject that Otabek was unqualified to take care of Yuri) annoying even Yuuri, who was not its aim, to the point where he had stuck up for Otabek and told Victor to shut up, himself. Otabek had appreciated that quite a bit since, while he had never been outright hostile toward Otabek the way his husband was, Yuuri had obviously been mad at him, too, though they had seemed to reach a careful truce for the sake of Yuri’s wellbeing when Preeclampsia had come into the picture. Indeed, this alliance had proved vital to Otabek’s defense in the final argument, Yuuri snapping at Victor that Otabek knew more about Yuri’s condition than even _Yuuri_ (who was a veritable spout of information on all things _baby)_ did, and that he’d take perfect care of Yuri.

The four fights, though, had all proven taxing, and had taken their toll on Otabek’s patience, so, now, as Victor angled for the _fifth_ argument, Otabek was getting dangerously close to losing his cool. 

“I’m not--” Otabek started to defend himself, annoyance flickering in his face-- Victor cut him off before he could speak though.

“I won’t have you manipulating him!” Victor barked, ignoring Yuuri’s sigh as he plopped back down on the sofa, from which he had earlier risen in the quixotic hope that argument three might be derailed and that they might get home. “Leave him trapped with you and before we know it, you’ll have convinced him to take you back!”

“I won’t--” Otabek tried again, grinding his teeth, his composure slipping.

“Yuri’s vulnerable right now-- I’m not leaving him at _your_ mercy. You _won’t_ get him to take you back now, I won’t let you! You’re not worth his second glance-- you miserable, worthless, sorry-excuse-for-a-man who goes around kissing the first person he sees without a care in the wo--”

_“I didn’t kiss her!”_ And the dam broke. Victor had _finally_ pushed him too far and he’d lost it. He couldn’t _take_ it anymore. Did Victor seriously think he _wanted_ this? “She kissed _me!_ Fucking jumped on me and by the time I pushed her off, Yuri had already seen-- what the _fuck_ do you want from me?!”

The moment the words were out of Otabek’s mouth, he regretted them. He wanted to take them back-- _needed_ to take them back, but had no way of doing so. 

For several moments, no one spoke, the heavy silence permeating every last corner of the room, broken only by Otabek’s ragged breathing.

In the end, it was Yuuri who spoke first.

“Otabek,” he murmured, looking distressed, “What-- why--”

Like a balloon popped, the fury from a moment before drained out of Otabek, and he deflated, sagging into an armchair across from the couch. He gave a defeated gesture. “You didn’t need to know,” was all he said, his voice low and dejected, “I didn’t mean to tell you; I’m sorry.”

Yuuri eyed him in bewilderment, “Nevermind that-- Otabek, why didn’t you _say_ anything?”

“It wasn’t important.”

“Wasn’t important?” Victor parrotted, looking at Otabek like he had never seen him before. “All this time, all these months…” He trailed off, horror dawning on his face at what Otabek assumed to be the man’s own actions, “Otabek this changes everything!”

“It doesn’t,” Otabek insisted quietly, staring at his fingers, entwined as they hung between his knees. “I still cheated. Nothing’s changed.”

“But if she kissed you,” Victor began, “then you didn’t cheat. She did kiss you, right?”

“Yes, but--”

“Then you’re fine!” Victor said, emphatic almost to the point of anger. “It wasn’t your fault, so you didn’t ch--”

“Yes, I did.” Otabek’s voice had long since taken on a tired quality, but now he was slightly more energetic, if only because he had to make them understand. “I might not have kissed her, but it was still my fault.”

“How could it be?” Victor challenged aggressively.

“I don’t know,” Otabek said miserably, “I led her on, or something. She was hanging off me all night-- the second Yuri left to get drinks she wouldn’t leave me alone; talking to me, touching me, _flirting_ with me,” Otabek looked ill. “I tried to be polite, but obviously that didn’t work because the second I started to walk away she jumped on me. I don’t know what I did, if I didn’t make it clear enough that I was married, that I wasn’t interested, but somehow it _was_ my fault!” The self-damnation in his voice spoke volumes.

“But that was still wasn’t you,” Victor insisted, as, in the background, Yuuri studied Otabek carefully, apparently reading him like the open book he’d been trying _so hard_ not to be. “You didn’t initiate the kiss!”

“But I still kissed her!” Otabek shot back, growing steadily sick of Victor’s half-assed attempts to defend him. “Even if I didn’t want to, I did! I kissed someone other than the man I’m married to: I cheated, whether I wanted to or not.” Otabek said this with a fury in his face that made it painfully obvious how long he’d been punishing himself for this. “And to make it worse, I hurt Yuri. I _promised_ him that I would never leave him, that he was enough, and then he saw me like _that_ \-- can you _imagine_ how he felt? Victor, he looked _so heartbroken.”_ There were tears in his eyes, “To see him look like that, to know _I_ caused it--” Otabek’s voice broke and he hung his head, scrubbing roughly at his face.

“Otabek,” Yuuri spoke gently, scooting forward on the couch to squeeze his shoulder, “If you just told Yuri, I’m sure he would understand.”

“He would.” Victor agreed softly, “He’d forgive you in a heartbeat.”

The effect of this, though, was far from what either of them had expected or intended. 

Otabek let out a wet, mirthless laugh, “That’s the problem,” he said thickly, shaking his head, “he would forgive me, and he’d destroy himself in the process.”

“He’s destroying himself now,” Victor said, confused by Otabek’s words, “nothing could be worse than how he’s living right now-- he thinks you don’t love him anymore. Otabek, if you just told him, it would be hard, yeah, but things would be okay.”

Otabek shook his head, “You don’t get it,” he said, “things would be okay for me, maybe, but what about Yuri?

“Yuri would forgive me immediately, you know he would, but he still wouldn’t be okay. Emotions aren’t logical-- everything he’s felt since Worlds wouldn’t just _go away,_ and you know him— he’d bury his pain and refuse to let anyone see that anything was wrong. It would invalidate his feelings, if he knew; it would kill him, Victor.” And, at last, understanding dawned in his eyes, “At least, with me painted as the evil, cheating spouse his world is black and white and even _he_ knows that he has the right to be upset, and that way he stands a chance at accepting help.” Otabek continued, “Do you think I _want_ to hurt him? It’s _killing me_ seeing him like this. I want to take him into my arms and hold him and tell him everything will be okay but I _can’t,_ not if I want _him_ to be okay.”

“So you’re going to lose him?” Victor asked, looking deeply saddened but quietly resigned, as if he knew what Otabek said was truth, “Just like that? You’re going to give up both the man you love and your _child_ without even a fight?”

“I have to.” Otabek’s voice was quiet; he was long resigned to his decision. “It’ll be better for him if I do. Easier. He doesn’t need his head messed with any more than it already is.”

Victor shook his head silently, at a loss. 

It was Yuuri who spoke.

“Otabek,” he said quietly, “what you want to do... it’s noble, but depression _can_ be beaten— it’s not some insurmountable monster. Yuri _will_ heal— with you as well as without you. You don’t have to give him up.”

“It’s too late now,” Otabek said, his voice hollow as he shook his head, “all that matters is that he get better, that he be okay.” He looked up, suddenly firm, authoritative, “You can _not_ tell him.” He said, “He can’t know.” He watched the couple, both looking pained. 

Slowly, Victor nodded, and, after a long, searching gaze at Otabek, Yuuri did, too.

“You’re making the wrong choice,” Yuuri said as he stood, shaking his head, “but it’s your choice. I’ll let you make it.”

“It’s for Yuri.” Otabek said, because, for him, that was more that reason enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ****Summary of skipped section****
> 
> In this chapter, Yuri slips in the bathroom and is taken to the ER; thankfully, Yuri ends up fine, and is merely put on bedrest.
> 
> ****A/N starts here****
> 
> Ahh, the big reveal! I’ve seen people theorizing in the comments and I hope this meets your expectations! I’ve been really nervous about your response to this, so I hope you’re not *too* disappointed. Otabek’s logic in this is admittedly EXTREMELY flawed, but try to keep it in mind that, even though he’s not going through what Yuri is, he’s wrestling with his own demons and he’s such an intensely loyal person that causing Yuri this much pain, ESPECIALLY in this way, has him spiraling down a hole of self-loathing and for-Yuri’s-welfare, he's-better-off-without-me nonsense.  
> Ah well, there will be a resolution, we just have to wait for it. Not long now! Hold on!
> 
> (Also: "All I Ask of You" came up on my Spotify as I was coding the last scene and I was just like, timing??? XD)
> 
> I’d love to hear your thoughts on the truth behind The Kiss™, so, if you feel so inclined, comment and let me know! ❤️
> 
> ****NEXT UPDATE ON SEPTEMBER 4TH****


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Never listen to _The Book of Mormon_ if you intend to get any writing done that month. In related news, I know have the entirety of "I Believe" memorized. It's hell. And it _won't stop._
> 
> Chapter 8 Recap: Yuri cries when "All I Ask of You" plays on his and Otabek's anniversary. Later, he slips, falls, and ends up going to the hospital with Otabek. He and the baby are both fine, though he's put on Modified Bed Rest, and, while telling Victuuri that, Otabek reveals the truth behind The Kiss ™.

Victor’s enthusiasm for helping Yuri settle into his new bed rest routine was tempered only by his schedule; when his _third_ alarm went off, reminding him that he had literally _ten minutes_ until his class at the rink started and he _had_ to leave, he dilly dallied for another five before being all but pushed out of the door.

It wasn’t that Yuri wasn’t grateful for Victor’s help, just that, well, he was _tired._ A bone-deep sort of exhaustion that promised not to fade for a long time to come. And social activity, especially with the ever-bubbly, vivacious Victor, only worsened his fatigue.

“Are you sure that you don’t want me to stay?” Victor asked, yet again, as he hovered nervously between Yuri’s bedside and the door. “I’m sure Liliana wouldn’t mind subbing for my class-- I’d be more than happy to keep you company a while longer.”

Yuri shook his head. Victor had appeared promptly at nine that morning, declaring that all of his studio classes were covered and he was free to spend the day helping Yuri adjust to his new routine; to be his ‘man servant’, as he called it. Yuri had hesitated to bring up the fact that he was far from alone, as Otabek would now be working from home to take care of Yuri (a decision that had been made without his consultation), only due to the fact that Victor had been so hostile toward any mention of him in recent months: Yuri would much prefer several hours in Victor’s company to several hours in Victor’s company while the latter man repeatedly bashed his husband.

“Liliana deserves a break,” Yuri said diplomatically, making an effort that another version of himself never would have to ensure that it wasn’t _obvious_ that he wanted Victor to leave. “She’s the interim teacher for all of my classes before Lilia can take over; I’m sure she doesn’t need any more sub work.”

Victor looked conflicted, logic dictating that Yuri was, indeed, correct, but his personal desire to stay and wait on his hand and swollen foot putting up a formidable argument. He had opened his mouth, either to tentatively agree or to feebly contradict, it was really anyone’s guess, when a figure appeared in the doorway. 

Otabek blinked when both heads swiveled toward him. “Sorry to disturb,” he glanced at Victor before they both, oddly enough, looked away, “but, Yuri, I was wondering if you were hungry? The doctor said it would be best to establish the schedule immediately, and this is around the time you would have your lunch break at the studio, right?”

Yuri glanced at his laptop, resting on the small lap desk that had been discarded following Victor’s arrival. Was it really two o’clock? Yuri bit back a sigh; no wonder he was so tired-- he would normally have eaten almost an hour ago. 

“Yeah,” Yuri said, and the baby kicked in agreement. Yuri set a hand on the roundest part of his abdomen and stroked it softly. “It is. I’ll start on it in a minute.” He glanced at Victor, hoping that he’d take the hint and see himself out. Instead, though, Victor looked slightly alarmed, glancing from Yuri to Otabek.

“But you’re on bedrest,” he said, “you’re not supposed to be cooking-- can’t Otabek do that?” He looked challengingly to the man in question, eyes narrowing into their practiced glare, before something strange flickered across his face, and his expression changed to uneasy civility. Yuri blinked.

_“Modified_ bed rest,” Otabek explained, addressing Victor’s comment. “There are set times to rest and lie down-- as long as we follow the schedule, it’s fine.” Didn’t mean he liked it.

Victor nodded slowly. “If you say so,” he said, before glancing at Yuri, “are you sure that you don’t want me to stay? I could do lunch for you, so you can stay in bed.”

“It’s fine,” Yuri said as he adjusted his position, lying on his left side on the maternity pillow, to get up. “You need to get to the rink. Didn’t you say that Sasha had had a breakthrough with his triple Loop?”

“He did…” Victor looked pained, then sighed. “I’ll drop by again at seven, after class. Are you sure you don’t need anything before I go?”

“I’m sure.” Yuri nodded as Victor raised a hand in farewell, and, after a quick glance back at Yuri, Otabek followed as he left the room.

The door closed downstairs, and Yuri slumped back against the pillows, letting out a sigh of relief. He ran a weary hand over his eyes, and a small smile curled his lips when the baby thumped against the palm still pressed to his abdomen. 

“I’m going, I’m going,” Yuri murmured gently to it as he felt a second bump, stroking over his navel. “Hold on. We’ll eat in a minute.”

***

Yuri disliked bed rest. He was stationed in bed, as always, working on his laptop as he sat up against the headboard, and, currently, he was struggling not to chuck his laptop at the wall. Sure, _in theory,_ writing up lesson plans for his classes should have been easy, but because they were so diverse, and he wasn’t _actually_ in class to see how and if things were getting done, it had quickly become apparent that the task was an exercise in inefficacy. 

Yuri let out a puff of frustration, and, giving in to temptation, closed his laptop. He ran a weary hand over his face, as, with the other, he shoved the lapdesk off of his abdomen and to the side. Gently massaging his temples, hoping to avoid the headache he had a sinking feeling was inevitable, Yuri dropped a hand to rub at his abdomen. He cupped the fullest part (which, honestly, wasn’t hard to find; he was fucking _huge)_ and smiled slightly as, immediately, a smattering of light kicks met his touch. 

Resting his head against the headboard, Yuri shut his eyes as he played with his daughter. Taking one finger, he drew random, swooping patterns on his belly, and felt it as she chased them, kicking and elbowing a little trail in their wake. Yuri could almost picture them doing this once she was born: him drawing patterns on her tummy and her giggling and screeching as she tried to escape the tickles. 

Yuri was brought back to reality when a knock on the door sounded, and he opened his eyes, pulling his shirt back down from where he’d rolled it up to play with the baby. Hoping halfheartedly that it wasn’t Victor in the hall, (it would be the fourth time that _week)_ Yuri gathered his remaining patience. While playing with his daughter had improved his mood exponentially, the stupid lesson planning had done a number on him, and he did _not_ want to socialize. 

“Come in.”

Yuri breathed a mental sigh of relief as Otabek poked his head into the room, and, seeming uncertain if he should enter fully, hung awkwardly over the threshold. “Hey,” he said, “I just got back from the store, and I wondered if you needed anything? We have coconut cake,” he added, “a fan works in the patisserie and wouldn’t let me leave until I took a cake. I don’t like coconut, but you do, so I thought you might want some?”

Of course Otabek didn’t like coconut-- as if Yuri hadn’t remembered. After almost five years of marriage and thirteen of friendship, Yuri knew full well that Otabek abhorred anything the fruit came in contact with.

Equalling Otabek’s disdain for it, though, was Yuri’s absolute _love_ of coconut. Coconut, milk, coconut bonbons, coconut _anything,_ Yuri practically adored. (He’d even teased Otabek for several weeks about making the wedding cake coconut and just having him eat a cookie or something, before eventually relenting and agreeing to chocolate. _With_ coconut-frosted cupcakes on the side, as per Yuri’s conditions.)

In fact, it now seemed unfathomable to Yuri that, throughout all of his lunatic, pregnancy cravings, he had never _once_ eaten coconut since he’d found out. He could vaguely remember having some weird (good, though he would never admit it) coconut blondie in the first five minutes of the Worlds banquet, waving it under Otabek’s nose and giggling as he looked pointedly away, but nothing since then. Either way, though, the absolute _travesty_ that was his lapsed coconut intake needed to be rectified, and, with his hormones clobbering him mercilessly over the head, Yuri was sure that if he hadn’t been craving coconut _before,_ now, he most certainly _was._

Hoping distractedly that the rumbling of his stomach at the mention of _cake_ hadn’t been audible, Yuri ran his hands along his belly to soothe the now-very-excited baby. Apparently, she liked the idea of cake, too.

A tiny smile curled Yuri’s lips as two firm kicks landed beneath his navel, as if to affirm his theory.

Glancing back up to Otabek to confirm that _yes, Yuri **needed** that cake!! _(in maybe less enthusiastic terms), Yuri found the man watching him, a quirk of his mouth, his smile and a sad, resigned sparkle in his eye. Yuri’s eyebrows furrowed slightly, but before he had time to examine the expression, to even ask what was wrong (though would he have? Yuri wasn’t sure), Otabek’s face had smoothed flat again, and Yuri was answering.

“Yeah, thanks--” Yuri’s words hung in the air, as if he wanted to add something else, but nothing came. “Thanks.” Yuri muttered again, fixing his attention on his abdomen and wrapping his arms around it to hide his embarrassment at his brain’s short circuit. 

“I’ll be right back,” Otabek nodded, apparently (mercifully) thinking nothing of the oddity of Yuri’s words. He turned on his heel and disappeared from the room, and Yuri’s attention was drawn by several excited, slightly-harder kicks to his bladder. 

“Hold on,” Yuri murmured to his abdomen, though he felt quite as impatient as the baby seemed to be, to get his hands on the cake. “Just wait a second. God, you’re going to be a terrible toddler.” A strong punch to the lung agreed, and Yuri laughed as he wheezed.

***

Yuri almost moaned aloud at the first bite of cake; Otabek had cut him an extra large slice, likely guessing his intentions toward the confectionary, and to say that Yuri was _thrilled_ would be understating it. It suddenly seemed _so long_ since Yuri had eaten coconut or baked goods of any kind. What had been _wrong_ with him? _Where_ had this cake _been_ all of these months? How had he ever managed without it?

Yuri’s eyes fluttered closed as he gloried in the dessert, the smooth, creamy frosting and sweet, fluffy cake. Balancing the plate on his abdomen, Yuri let his head lean back against the headboard, in absolute bliss. The baby, true to Yuri’s prediction, also seemed to be enjoying the treat, and excited, little kicks rained down on Yuri’s kidneys and liver, though none were hard enough to potentially jostle the plate balanced upon Yuri’s abdomen. Yuri couldn’t help but smile: his daughter had priorities. 

She definitely liked coconut, Yuri was sure, when he felt the baby do a somersault in his abdomen on the next bite; Otabek would be outvoted: they would be having this _all_ of the time. Rubbing his belly with one hand and carefully steadying the cake with the other, Yuri knew that this would be the centerpiece at every celebration; though, _maybe,_ if Yuri and the baby were feeling nice, Otabek would be allowed to have his favored, _boring_ chocolate cake on his birthday.

Yuri froze. His hand stilled on his abdomen; his eyes flew open, his fingers around his fork grew lax.

Yuri swallowed slowly.

Where had that come from? They wouldn’t-- they _weren’t_ going to be doing any of that. It wouldn’t matter if the child liked coconut— their little ‘family’ wouldn’t be together enough for it to even matter. There would be no voting, no cake at celebrations, likely no _celebrations,_ at all-- at least none together.

He and Otabek would have shared custody, that had been specified in the divorce papers they were waiting until the baby was born to sign. They would _share_ big events, not do them together. Maybe when their daughter was still too young to be traded back and forth, they would keep living together, just to take care of her; but once it was possible, Yuri knew that that would end. After all, who would want to live with the other half of their loveless, failed marriage for any longer than was strictly necessary?  
Yuri put his fork down. Suddenly, the cake didn’t seem so good, anymore.

***

If Otabek had thought that being put on bed rest would finally force Yuri to accept help, he was thoroughly mistaken; every time Otabek knocked on Yuri’s door to ask what he wanted for lunch, he instead found him mid-meal prep in the kitchen. And, the worst of it was, Otabek couldn’t do _anything_ about it. 

Yuri followed his schedule to a T, resting, eating, and sleeping at the set times, and, while he had yet to try to do the gardening (an activity strictly off-limits, as per the doctor’s orders), he was _still_ refusing Otabek’s offers to do anything that Yuri could _technically_ get away with doing himself. It was frustrating, to say the least. 

So, when Otabek skipped checking the master bedroom at 6:30 one night and instead went straight to the kitchen, it was with no surprise but much desperation that he found Yuri seated at the table, peeling potatoes. 

Yuri glanced up when Otabek entered the room, before he stalwartly continued peeling his potato, as if preemptively silencing all offers of assistance. Sending the table a look, Otabek found it to be covered in the ingredients he immediately recognized as those comprising piroshki. Potato, beef, onion, and cheese ones, to be exact. 

Otabek’s brow creased. Yuri hadn’t had piroshki in quite some time, at least to his knowledge, which surprised him, now he thought about it, because piroshki was the ultimate comfort food, and the fact that it had been so readily absent from Yuri’s diet was vaguely concerning. Now, though, what Otabek was focused on (and he made a mental note to think about the lack of piroshki later), was that piroshki took quite some time to make, and over two hours spent on an arduous recipe was not what Yuri needed right now. Bed rest or not, Otabek would’ve worried that Yuri might overstretch himself with the dish, but the fact that he _was actually on doctor-ordered bed rest_ only cemented his case.

Otabek moved to the sink, trying to come up with a way to offer his assistance without coming off as patronizing or manipulative. Sure, he’d love to say, _‘please, Yuri, think of the baby-- what if she gets hurt because you **won’t sit down?** ’,_ but, somehow, he doubted that that would go over well. (He’d actually love to say, _‘Yuri, what if **you** get hurt because you **won’t sit down?** ’,_ but he thought that would go over worse.)

As Otabek busied himself with washing the dirty dishes from Yuri’s meal prep (small victories), he, as inconspicuously as possible, naturally, cast his gaze over to where Yuri worked at the kitchen table. As he watched, Yuri started to get up, bracing himself with one hand on the table and one on the back of his chair, easing himself laboriously to his feet. He’d only just achieved them when he let out a silent gasp, pain flickering across his face. His hand rubbed at the small of his back (Otabek had read that contractions, real and false, alike, often felt like pressure coming from the back into the abdomen) and he bit his lip.

Otabek had just opened his mouth, impulsively about to ask if Yuri was alright, when Yuri moved, grabbing the potato peelings and waddling across to the island, under which was the trash can. He dumped them in, and repeated his trip, moving back to the table to gather the (now peeled and chopped) potatoes onto the cutting board to bring them back to the island, where the dough was waiting. 

Yuri’s motions had acted as stimulant (or anti-stimulant, whichever made more sense) to Otabek and he managed to stop himself before he could speak and make things worse.

Dishes done but unwilling to leave the safety of the sink, a good vantage point to survey the kitchen while appearing busy, Otabek’s eyes followed Yuri as he began folding the dough over the ingredients placed in the center of the small circle. He was just pinching a third one closed when he grimaced, his hand moving to rub again at his back as his face twisted in pain. Otabek couldn’t stop himself.

“Are you alright?” He asked, before he had even registered forming the thought.

Like an actor coming out of a role, Yuri’s face instantly wiped clean of the pained expression, and the hand fell from his back. Only the slightest twitch in his eyebrow betrayed him; Yuri wore his press face, the carefully blank expression he had learned to adopt when, A) he seriously wanted to punch someone but couldn’t because the cameras were right next to him, trained on his every move, or, B) he was hiding an injury at the Kiss and Cry, every camera in the rink on him. Otabek hoped that this case was caused solely by the latter reason, but he honestly wasn’t sure.

“Braxton Hicks.” Yuri replied, in a flat tone that brooked no discussion, and moved on to the fourth piroshki bun.

“Oh,” Otabek nodded, even though Yuri could not see him. And, because he was a self-destructive idiot, “can I help?” He added, heart rate picking up slightly as he watched Yuri fail to hide another wince of pain as he stood at the island.

“I’m almost done.” Even to Yuri’s own ears, his voice sounded brittle. (To his own ears it sounded like a lie, too: there was another half hour in the recipe, yet, and that didn’t even include the 75 minutes of cooking time.)

Purposefully, Yuri continued pinching the seam of his piroshki closed, making an effort to focus on the squish of the dough between his fingers instead of the pressure in his abdomen. The Braxton Hicks had never been fun, but the further along Yuri had gotten, the worse the pain had grown. Now, barely two weeks away from his due date, they _hurt._

Normally, whenever a particularly vicious false-contraction decided to plague him, Yuri found that walking around or pacing could help. (That was the difference between the false contractions and the real ones, apparently: the Braxton Hicks could be eased or ended altogether by motion or a change of position; real contractions couldn’t.) Now, though, Yuri was loathe to give any sign that he was in pain, not with Otabek right there, obviously itching to help. He stayed still.

Yuri could manage perfectly well on his own; he didn’t need Otabek’s help. He would accept the bedrest (grudgingly), and the necessary, unavoidable dependence that came with it (even more so), but anything else, he could do himself. Anything else, he _would_ do himself, and would _have_ to do himself in a few months’ time, anyway, when the option of aid wasn’t available, anymore. If he was perfectly capable of making his own meals, which he was, he saw no reason not to and was equally blind to what was to be gained by accustoming himself to temporary aid. 

Though, judging by the way Otabek hovered nervously at his back, those weren’t shared opinions.

Finished folding his tray of piroshki, Yuri was just about to begin rolling out the remaining dough bits, knowing from experience that the extra dough could normally make another two buns, when his body apparently decided to go for the ultimate ‘fuck Yuri and his wishes’ and a strong, _strong_ Braxton Hicks contraction forced him to let out a little groan of pain, his knuckles whitening on the rolling pin and a hand moving to knead at his abdomen.

The contraction lasted for almost a minute, and, by the time it had fully passed, Yuri was feeling a little weak at the knees. The fact that he was painfully aware of his audience, Otabek very obviously hanging on his every deep, labored breath, didn’t make things easier. And, actively making things harder--

“Yuri.” Otabek’s voice was quiet; and, Yuri realized with a jolt, pleading. He hadn’t heard Otabek speak like this, imploring, since they’d first separated. “Please. Why don’t you sit down? You don’t _need_ to be doing this.” Slowly, he held his hand out to take the rolling pin. _“Please,_ take care of yourself.”

For several, long seconds, Yuri just stared at the hand. Then, a soft, happy, little kick pattered under his navel.

Yuri knew that Otabek was only doing this for the baby: he wanted to ensure that Yuri didn’t screw up again and hurt her. And, as much as Yuri wanted to rebuke Otabek’s offer, he could hear the silent plea. _“Take care of yourself.”_ Take care of the _baby._

Yuri wanted to tell Otabek to leave him alone, that he _could_ take care of himself, that he _would be fine_ without him, but-- 

But, at the moment, that wasn’t what the conversation was about. As much as he’d tried not to see it, tried to carry on as usual, the trip to the ER had been a wake up call. He’d slipped because he had been exhausted, because he had refused to let Otabek help with the laundry and put out the bath mats, because he’d forced himself to make dinner when Otabek was waiting in the other room, practically clamoring to do it for him. The doctor had _said_ that the sole goal of Bed Rest had been to ease the strain on Yuri, to help him carry the baby to term and minimize stress. And now what was he doing? Exactly the same thing as before, only barely following the loosest rules for how much he should be on his feet. How much he should do by himself.

Three powerful Braxton Hicks contractions in fifteen minutes, though, and a few choice words from the normally silent and reserved Otabek, were now finally forcing him to accept the truth. 

He was doing this for the baby, and, if something happened to her because of _him,_ he didn’t know what he would do. Another tiny, almost timid, kick to Yuri’s lung, and Yuri let out a small whoosh of breath, almost a sigh but for the force with which it had been expelled from his lung. 

Slowly, Yuri set the rolling pin in Otabek’s palm.

***

Yuri wasn’t sure if he should be proud of himself or intensely embarrassed that he managed to maneuver himself onto his mattress and grasp the covers, leaning strangely around his abdomen, to pull them over himself in only one try.

Maybe he should be intensely embarrassed that he was proud of himself for completing a basic, human task in getting into bed after only one try. Ah, compromise.

Following his final bathroom break before going to bed (Yuri would love to say for the night, but he knew all too well, by now, that he’d be up at least twice more before dawn broke to pee), Yuri completed the tail-end of his (modified) bedtime routine. Situated comfortably on his side, maternity pillow in place, phone charging on his night stand, and reaching out to turn the light off, Yuri rolled his eyes as an insistent kick squished his liver into what _had_ to be a very odd shape.

“No.” Yuri told his abdomen firmly, clicking off the light and nestling into the bed, letting a hand down to soothe the baby. She’d been kicking for the past ten minutes, well after their nightly rendition of “All I Ask of You”, and Yuri knew full well what she wanted. That didn’t mean he was going to give it to her.

Another kick, and Yuri sighed. “You’ve already listened to it, calm down.” Another kick. Another sigh. Arduously, Yuri rolled over, hoping the adjustment would help to settle the baby down. 

Kick. 

Apparently, it would not.

After fifteen minutes spent tossing and turning, Yuri had the serious feeling of deja vu, the sleepless nights of months before coming back to haunt him. 

As if knowing that he was nearing his breaking point, the baby (apparently using all of her considerable, infant strength, the little shit) kicked Yuri once more, this time deciding that brutalizing his internal organs wasn’t fun, anymore, and going for the grand prize. 

Yuri gasped as a tiny foot made contact with his cervix, and sent bolts of lightning through his body. Apparently satisfied that she had inflicted enough damage to give Yuri time to reconsider his stance, like a torturer would, the baby wiggled in a distinctly menacing way before going still.

Yuri sighed before reaching out for his phone, in the darkness. Oh well, parenting and discipline could wait until she was a little older.

Wincing and looking away as the lamp was turned back on, Yuri pulled his phone toward him, glancing around the room for the earphones as the song synced up.

Normally, unless Yuri was particularly busy and moving around a lot (which, as of recently, was never) Yuri played “All I Ask of You” through his old, cat ear headphones, putting them on his stomach in a way he had read somewhere was good for the baby. The music mentioned in conjunction with the practice had been classical, but as the baby had seemed completely unmoved by anything other than her favorite song, Yuri figured that this was good enough.

Yuri sighed when he spotted the sought-after headphones from his spot in bed. They sat on top of his chest of drawers across the room, and, honestly, Yuri wasn’t so keen on getting up to retrieve them: he’d just gotten comfortable and had apparently found the one position known to man that didn’t make his back ache. He was _not_ getting up for anything less than a fire… of having to pee again.

The baby gave a warning kick, and Yuri huffed fondly, rolling his eyes at his daughter’s impatience. Yep, she’d be a hellish toddler, but she’d be cute enough to make up for it.

Deciding that absolutely nothing was worth moving for, Yuri pressed play on the track on his phone. He could listen to the song-- it wouldn’t kill him. And if it got the _baby_ not to kill him, it was certainly a small price to pay.

The baby kicked happily, (more gently, thank god) and Yuri smiled softly as he let his eyes close, the music washing over him and his hand resting on his abdomen. When Otabek found him the next morning, fast asleep with the music still playing on loop, a tiny smile curving his lips, he was given a lot to think about.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sincere apologies for the relative shitty-ness of this chapter. Along with mental/auditory ailments previously mentioned, the past two weeks have yielded one family emergency (the grandmother is now fine), another forced-participation, family vacation (staying at a hotel for three days without wifi or cell service; fun), and petsitting three times a day. Needless to say, none of this has been conducive to writing. This chapter was also the least planned-out of any of them and, honestly, just a filler. The next chapter will be back up to our usual quality!
> 
> (Also, cue the panicking over the official chapter count. XD)
> 
> Comments and kudos give my creativity insanity fuel, so add to the madness, if you wish! ♥
> 
> (There is also a 14K word oneshot up on my channel-- check it out!   
> [**Rearranged**](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25757167).)
> 
> **NEXT UPDATE ON SEPTEMBER 18TH**


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning for sensitive parties, added after I posted this, because I'm stupid: this chapter contains birth scenes. It's not gory by any means, but it isn't just 'ow, oh, look, the baby's out', either. Proceed with the necessary caution.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 9 recap: Yuri decides to let Otabek take care of him, to make sure that the baby is okay. Said baby is an adorable brat and kicks until Yuri plays her "All I Ask of You" on repeat, even though once per night had worked in the past. Otabek finds Yuri asleep in the morning, a tiny smile on his face, with the song on, and is so confused???
> 
> **A/N**
> 
> Hey, guys. So, this is the last official chapter of _Shattering Glass_ (It's technically a novel now, going by length, and longer than _The Great Gatsby!),_ , the epilogue coming in two weeks, and I'd like to give my thanks and say my goodbyes with this author's note. Feel free to skip.
> 
> Where to begin. I've poured my heart and soul, blood, sweat, and tears, (a lot of tears) into this story; in the last six months, it's become such a part of me that I genuinely don't know what I'll do with myself once it's completed. This isn't the end of my journey as an author, that's for sure, and to those who read this story for the sole reason that this is Otayuri mpreg (yes, a guilty pleasure of mine, too), I can guarantee that there will be more of that on my channel, so just be patient.
> 
> I don't have a specific plan for what I'm going to work on after SG is complete-- right now, I'm hoping to finish up a few one/twoshot WIPs I've had on my GoogleDoc Graveyard for a while, and have a goal of participating in every YOI fan week that comes my way, even if I only contribute one piece. So far Spooky Week, YOI Angst Week, and, of course, Otayuri Week are on the horizon. Rest assured, though, that there will be plenty more multichapter, mpreg and non-mpreg, Otayuri stories from me, though I'm hesitant to commit before I'm sure I know which multichapter WIP I'll write (there are many to choose from). To get updates on my works, subscribe to me as an author, if you want.
> 
> I'm almost done! Finally, I just want to say a resounding, teary-eyed _thank you_ to all of my readers, out there. To my commenters, your words mean the world to me, to my silent readers, I understand, I'm comment-shy, too, and to my future readers, I love all of you. Thank you for coming with me on this journey, and I hope I'll see you again! ♥
> 
> At last, we have reached the end of my uber author's note. Enjoy the final chapter of Shattering Glass and I'll see you on **OCTOBER 2ND** for the epilogue! ♥

Yuri almost wanted to cry. He could feel it: he was floating back, up through the realms of sleep toward consciousness, the border between the lightest layers of the two he had been drifting for a long time, lapping at the edges of wakefulness even as he tried to cling to sleep.

And still, the world was making more sense as Yuri grasped for the last vestiges of sleep, seeking to enshroud himself in its warmth and rest a while longer.

It was not to be, it seemed, and Yuri let out a tiny whimper as he became aware of the pillowcase scratching against his cheek, the pinpricks of light filtering through the film of his eyelids, the warm, late afternoon sunlight coming in through the barely open window on the breeze.

Hazily, he blinked, fogginess clinging to the edges of his vision and dew sticking his eyelashes together, the last remnants of yet another slumber disturbed

It was almost funny, really, Yuri’s half awake, clumsy brain cells pointed out as they stumbled into function. Before, if asked, Yuri would have said that the stereotypical, late-term pregnancy exhaustion was a myth, perhaps an excuse contrived by expectant parents to justify laziness and excessive napping. While it was true that Yuri had encountered his own number of aches and pains throughout pregnancy, more tiredness than he would’ve expected, too, up until recently, he still would’ve written off the life-draining, soul-sucking, energy-stealing, phantom exhaustion as flowery dramatics and hormonal fluctuation-induced exaggeration. And then he had hit 37 weeks. And that had helped several things make sense. 

Yuri had lived in some state of less-than-energetic ever since month two of his daughter’s existence, the frequent runs to the bathroom to vomit, draining, and the absolute _lack_ of will to live, even more so. Now, though, he thought he could see where the complaints of exhaustion came from. 

Yuri had never been so appreciative of doctor-mandated bed rest; he knew that, without it, he would’ve forced himself up and about despite his fatigue, but with it, he had a ready excuse for staying in bed and sleeping all day. Or, at least, he would, if he was ever _able_ to sleep all day. Or, you know, at all. 

Yuri yawned widely as he shifted slightly in bed, the world around him soft and warm, comfortable in the way it only can be when you’re trying not to go back to sleep. Or, in Yuri’s case, trying to go back to sleep, only to have your demonic, sadistic body betray you. 

It wasn’t even that he couldn’t sleep -- he was drifting off already --, but he just _kept_ waking up. 

Nestling further down into the covers and pressing his eyes firmly closed, Yuri made his best effort to turn his mind off, hoping to lull himself back to dreamland. After five minutes of that, though, Yuri had to face the music. He was now fully conscious, if formidably groggy, and he was hyper-aware of how warm it was in his position, snuggled beneath the blankets. Granted, it was the middle of October in Russia, so it couldn’t justifiably be called _warm_ in any right, but with the heat cranked up in the house and under five layers of alternatingly fluffy and heavy blankets, Yuri thought that it was fairly reasonable to be uncomfortable. 

Shrugging the bedding off of his shoulder and pushing it down to cover his abdomen with sleep-weakened arms, Yuri glanced behind him, eyes squinting as he took in just how not-pitch-black it was in the room; the golden, late afternoon sun coming in through the window was nice, but a bit blinding when the eyes were still delicate from sleep. 

Yuri blinked once or twice as he turned his gaze over his shoulder again and struggled to read his clock. The LED numbers blurred together and he rubbed his eyes, squinting as he tried to force the unruly lines into focus. Finally, once his sight felt like cooperating, Yuri was able to make out the slightly fuzzy digits to be those comprising 6:52. 

God, had it really been two hours? 

Yuri groaned lightly as a Braxton Hicks contraction tightened his abdomen, heightening the soreness he’d been feeling in it and his back, all day. Still too sleepy to begin to contemplate pacing to ward off the practice pain, Yuri hoped that a mere change in position would settle it, and braced himself on his elbows to roll over, exhausted. 

He’d been trying to sleep since almost five o’clock that afternoon, and had little to show for it-- a handful of disrupted minutes and a persistent, nagging instinct to abandon trying to rest and instead rearrange the baby’s room, his only results. Of course, the only two things that had the ability to keep him in bed when in opposition with the nesting instinct, his supreme tiredness and his bed rest schedule, had kept him where he was, but perhaps the influence of the need to make sure that everything was perfect had been too great, and had cost him his nap. Certainly, though, _something_ had cost him his nap, and he felt as though he’d barely slept at all. 

Now on his back, feeling slightly like a turtle flipped on its shell, Yuri let himself sag into the pillows, hoping that the positioning would accomplish what he wished. In a second, he let out a little sigh; rolling over had done the trick: the contraction had run its course. Instead of moving immediately, however, Yuri just laid there for a second, comfortable and, ridiculously, spent from his short spurt of movement. 

There was no way he’d be able to sleep like this and the resulting backache wouldn’t make it even _close_ to worth it, but Yuri took a moment to shut his eyes before he began the arduous process of transitioning further, onto his _left_ side. Yuri was just debating whether or not he should try to move his maternity pillow with him, depending on if he would be awake or asleep, and if he would end up using it, or just kicking it away, when there was a light knock on the door, and Otabek poked his head through. 

“Hey,” he said, taking a small step into the room, the door ajar behind him. “Oh, sorry-- did I wake you?” 

Yuri shook his head, both sides of the argument losing, and scooted further up so he sat against the pillows. Otabek followed his motion, looking conflicted (an expression Yuri knew well), his instincts obviously screaming at him to help but his sense commanding him not to. 

While it was true that Yuri and Otabek’s relationship had improved over the last two weeks, things relaxing somewhat once Yuri had finally allowed Otabek to help him, things were still far from normal and farther still from the way they used to be. Otabek, while obviously more confident in taking over tasks for and offering help to Yuri without the constant, cold fear of rejection (something else Yuri knew well), was still hesitant to cross any lines, and was careful to keep himself at arm’s length from Yuri-- a fact which Yuri appreciated. At any rate, their relationship had certainly become easier, and Yuri was considerably less worried about how they’d manage once the baby came. 

“I couldn’t sleep,” Yuri said and Otabek allowed a look of sympathy to cross his face-- certainly more than he might have done a month prior. 

“Insomnia?” He asked (Yuri would bet anything that he’d been researching -- again -- and knew better than Yuri did, what would ail him at this stage). 

“Couldn’t get comfortable.” Yuri muttered, his voice dulled with drowsiness. “Kept waking up.” 

Otabek nodded, and glanced at the clock. “Uh, I came up because I was wondering what you wanted for dinner?” He said, “I was thinking Chinese? We haven’t had takeout in awhile.” 

Yuri nodded, pressing the back of his hand over his mouth as he yawned. 

Otabek was turning to go, knowing their orders by heart (even Yuri’s pregnancy-altered ones), when he suddenly turned back, apparently impulsive. 

“Have you tried doing something else?” He asked abruptly, and Yuri blinked. “To sleep, I mean,” he added hastily. “Apparently after trying to sleep for a few hours, getting up and doing something else for a while helps. I read it somewhere.” 

(Bullshit; he had most definitely found it on one of his daily perusals of the entire internet’s contents of pregnancy information.) 

As Yuri’s still groggy brain struggled to comprehend this, Otabek’s face fell, almost imperceptibly (Yuri only noticed because he’d known the man for 13 years and had a PhD in Otaspeak), and he began to shake his head. 

“Nevermind,” he said quickly, “it doesn’t--” 

“Okay,” Yuri cut him off, nodding tiredly and trying not to yawn again; he didn’t want Otabek to retreat back into his shell, not when he’d just started to come out. Otabek visibly perked up before schooling his expression back to neutrality: stoic if he ever was; Yuri was struck with the insane urge to laugh. 

With Otabek hovering slightly awkwardly in the doorway, obviously unsure if he should stay and wait for Yuri, or go before him, Yuri shifted his weight, leaning back on his hands as he turned carefully and swung his legs over the bed. The baby wiggled and Yuri pet his abdomen absentmindedly. 

Painstakingly getting to his feet, completely ignoring Otabek’s jerk forward to help before he managed to check himself, Yuri, clad in a previously too-large but now almost too-small sweater, leggings, and fuzzy socks, waddled across the room and to the door. 

(It was almost amusing to watch as Otabek struggled with himself, steadfastly not putting a hand on Yuri’s back to help him down the stairs, but very obviously wanting to.) 

Yuri plopped down on the couch when they reached the living room, uninterested in doing ‘something else’ on the hard, kitchen chairs, and situated himself comfortably before turning to Otabek, expectant. 

Otabek shifted under Yuri’s gaze. “The website said it works best if you do something that holds your focus but doesn’t require too much brain power to wake you up. Like watching TV or reading something easy.” 

Yuri nodded and cast his gaze to the remote, sitting a few feet away on the coffee table. Otabek moved forward and handed it to him. 

“I’ll order dinner,” he said, “once you’ve eaten, it’ll be easier to sleep, too.” Yuri nodded again, and, with one last, lingering glance, Otabek left the room, moving to the kitchen to put in the order. 

As he put his phone to his ear, peering into the fridge and making a mental note to go grocery shopping soon -- they were nearly out of lettuce --, Otabek’s attention was captured, faint noise coming from the living room. Yuri had found something to watch, then. 

Six minutes later, dinner ordered and credit card details exchanged, Otabek made his way back to the living room, unsure if he was planning on simply telling Yuri that the wait time would be longer than usual (apparently the restaurant had had a bachelor party come in and were now swamped with customers): 75 minutes instead of 45; or if he was going to stay to watch whatever Yuri was. When he registered the music coming from the television, though, he stopped dead. 

In the middle of the hallway, the unmistakable, haunting melody of “Think of Me” floated, otherworldly in its familiarity and strangeness, from the living room. Thoughts of restaurants and wait times fell from Otabek’s head as he moved to the doorway, a man spellbound. 

Yuri sat on the couch, his head pillowed on his hand where it was supported on the armrest, his feet up on the ottoman and the throw blanket from the back of the couch strewn across his lap. His eyelids drooped, betraying his tiredness, but otherwise, his gaze was fixed on the TV, and he barely glanced away as Otabek appeared in the doorway. 

“Are you,” Otabek was struggling to breathe. Was this normal? Was one _supposed_ to be able to breathe when confronted with their soon-to-be ex-husband who they were still desperately in love with but had resigned themself to never having, watching the movie that was, for all intents and purposes, the soundtrack to their love story? “Watching that?” He didn’t choke on his tongue. Good for him. 

“It was on,” Yuri murmured through a wide yawn. 

As if pulled by an invisible thread, the siren’s song of hope, Otabek walked across the room, and sat down on the other side of the couch. Yuri didn’t bat an eye. 

*** 

Together, they sat and watched the movie for long enough that dinner came and went, but, honestly, Otabek didn’t register a second of it. The entire movie he’d had to force himself to keep his eyes on the screen, barely catching himself when they strayed to watch Yuri, instead. 

Like now: and, as “Don Juan” played on screen, Otabek allowed himself a quick, fleeting glance at his soon-to-be ex-husband, just to tide himself over. 

Yuri’s eyes were half-lidded, as Otabek looked, dulled slightly with sleep, but, still, there was the tiniest, faintest glimmer in them as the music crescendoed. As Otabek watched him, though, Yuri’s hand moved to rub his abdomen and his gaze fell to it, a tiny, exasperated smile curling his lips as the baby kicked. 

Ah; of course, Otabek thought: the brightness in Yuri’s eye had been brought on by the baby kicking. What else could it have been? 

His brief glance allotment over, Otabek forced his gaze back to the movie and managed to lose himself in “The Point of No Return”, before, at the movie’s end, he looked up again, and found that his was the only attention on the TV. 

Yuri’s eyes were shut, eyelashes fluttering imperceptibly; he was not asleep, but very close to it, and his head slumped forward, resting in his hand, elbow still raised on the arm of the couch. On his abdomen, Potya slept, apparently having joined the couple without Otabek noticing, and was curled in a white, fluffy ball, her tiny head tucked up and resting just beneath Yuri’s breast. 

Unable to contain a tiny smile at the soft, domestic sight (a smile that faded slightly once Otabek reminded himself that there was nothing truly domestic about this), Otabek got up from his side of the couch, walking over to gently remove Potya. 

The cat squirmed upon her relocation to the couch cushion beside Yuri, but after a moment of petting, she was pacified and curled up once more, tail poofed and silky. As he had picked her up, though, Otabek had just barely brushed the back of his hand against the top of Yuri’s abdomen. It had been warm through his sweater, and Otabek had smiled softly at the tiny trail of movement from within in response to his touch, as though the baby was dragging her arm down Yuri’s abdomen. He kept his hand there for a few moments too long before he removed it. 

“Yuri,” he called, reaching out to shake Yuri’s shoulder lightly. Just to wake him up-- then he’d refrain from touching him anymore. “Yuri, you need to wake up: the movie’s over.” 

Yuri stirred weakly, his eyelashes fluttering and his nose scrunching slightly in that adorable way it did whenever he was discontent. Seeing that Yuri was sufficiently roused, Otabek was about to remove his hand when Yuri’s eyes opened, and he was pinned in place by a sleepy, green stare. Yuri made a confused, little noise, still very much sleep’s victim, and blinked hazily. He didn’t draw away, though. 

“Yuri,” Otabek tried again, remembering so many times like these and feeling very soft, even if he knew that the moment was about to end. “You need to get to bed; you can’t sleep here: you’ll kill your back.” 

Yuri blinked again, not quite grasping Otabek’s words, but nodded slightly when Otabek carefully moved his hand from Yuri’s shoulder to the small of his back (taking the initiative he would normally try hard not to, but now couldn’t help himself; he blamed the movie). 

Bracing his hand on the arm of the couch and planting his feet, Yuri allowed Otabek to help him stand, taking his right hand when it was offered and eventually regaining his footing. It was in that moment that Otabek realized how very close they were; his hand was still at the small of Yuri’s back, Yuri’s hand in his left, and Yuri’s right on Otabek’s bicep, where he had accepted help to stand. Had Yuri not been 9/10’s asleep, and had it not been for their… situation, the position would be an affectionate one, even intimate. As it was, Otabek had to fight himself not to kiss him; it felt _so natural._

Otabek wasn’t given time, though, to either A) jerk back as if burned, the epitome of awkwardness, or B) he had absolutely no idea, but he knew that there _was_ an option B, for his attention was caught almost immediately by Yuri’s soft gasp, his head bowing as he looked down. Yuri’s black leggings were suddenly a shade or two darker. 

He raised his head with wide, frightened, now-very-awake eyes, staring desperately at Otabek. Otabek stared back, just as shocked as Yuri evidently was. 

There was still five days before the baby was due; while he knew that babies, especially firstborns, often came a week or two early, he wasn’t mentally prepared for _their_ baby to do that! 

Yuri, apparently, followed the same vein, for he let out a shaky breath at that moment, wild-eyed. “No,” he breathed, voice soft, face turning white. “Not yet, not now. It’s not-- there’s still five days--” He interrupted himself with a grimace, face pinching as what Otabek was sure was a contraction sent waves of pain through his body. “No,” he groaned, shaking his head slowly as his fingers tensed where his hands still rested on Otabek’s arms. 

Still in shock, but realizing that Yuri probably didn’t want to be touched right now, Otabek gently tried to disengage; Yuri’s grip tightened. 

In hindsight, Yuri was in pain: he probably needed something to hold on to, Otabek considered, and refrained from giving him his space until his grip slackened, and only then did Otabek feel Yuri’s hands shaking. 

“Not yet,” Yuri moaned quietly, likely to himself. “I’m not ready. _Please_ not yet. I can’t--” his breath caught, and a tear fell. 

“It’s okay,” Otabek managed, and apparently seeing Yuri cry was what it took to bring his mind back. Not so surprising, considering. “It’ll be okay.” 

Incredulous, tearful, green eyes met his. “I can’t--” Yuri shook his head, “I can’t do this. I’m not ready.” He was breathing quickly; Otabek wasn’t sure if it was because he was in pain or because he was so upset. 

“You can,” Otabek said firmly, checking the impulse to reach out and give him the hug he so obviously needed right now. “I know you can; it’ll be okay.” 

“But she’s too small,” Yuri’s eyes were scared, terror reflected in his irises. “She’s early-- she’s not--” 

“She’ll be fine,” Otabek said, in a way he deeply hoped was soothing, “it’s only five days. Babies come early all of the time; she’s perfectly healthy.” He locked eyes with Yuri. “She will be fine,” he said firmly, taking care to enunciate, “I promise.” 

Slowly, breathing heavily, Yuri nodded. A few more tears fell. 

“Now,” Otabek continued, an excellent imitation of calm. “We need to get to the hospital. Do you have a bag packed?” He should’ve thought of this. Fuck. Why hadn’t he checked with Yuri earlier if he was packed? 

Yuri nodded again, a little stronger. “Closet.” He murmured and Otabek nodded. 

“I’ll be right back.” 

Otabek tore up the stairs, his anxiety releasing in the form of narrowly avoiding crashing headfirst into the banister. (Thankfully, this happened out of Yuri’s line of sight, but the _thud_ as Otabek skidded into the wall was likely audible all throughout the house.) 

*** 

After all of this time, it felt weird to go into the master bedroom. Otabek hadn’t slept in here since… 217 days ago, and just walking in felt _wrong._

Still. 

Otabek opened the closet door, firmly hoping that if he ignored the shaking in his hands it would go away, and breathed an immense sigh of relief when he saw a yellow, medium-sized suitcase sitting there, waiting-- Yuri’s carry-on for competitions. Snatching it up, Otabek hurried back downstairs, finding Yuri slipping on shoes, one hand braced against the wall for balance. Quickly, they donned their coats (Yuri less quickly; the zipper was temperamental) and left, Otabek feeling supremely guilty when Potya meowed at his ankles just as he was walking out the door, and he had to rush back into the house to feed her. 

As he did his best _not_ to drive like the nervous-wreck and/or maniac he felt himself to be, Otabek glanced repeatedly out of the corner of his eye to Yuri in the passenger seat; his head practically snapped in Yuri’s direction when the latter hissed, lines forming on his face as he rubbed his side with his palm, before encircling his abdomen with his arms and holding it, his temple pressed against the window. 

*** 

When they reached the hospital, Yuri was ushered into a wheelchair (which, for once in his lifetime of hospital visits, he actually accepted without a fight) and they were brought to a room (Yuri seemed as relieved as Otabek was when they were told it was a private one) where Yuri was instructed to put on a hospital gown behind a blue curtain. 

In lieu of staring blankly at the curtain while Yuri changed, feeling significantly like a lost duckling without Yuri in his line of sight, Otabek forced himself to compose a text to Yuuri, typing out _‘Yuri’s in labor. At the hospital’_ with shaking fingers. It took him multiple tries to write hospital: he kept misclicking ‘k’ instead of ‘l.’ 

The distraction worked better than Otabek had anticipated, though, and moments after the text had delivered, he got one in return. 

_‘ON THE WAY!!!!!’_ Ah, so Victor had stolen his husband’s phone, again. 

The ensuing argument (Otabek had said he would ask Yuri; Victor seemed enraged that Otabek wasn’t immediately telling him the room number) was swift but discourteous, Victor apparently disregarding his newfound civility towards Otabek when said man stood between himself and Yuri. 

Otabek had just started replying to Victor’s _seventh_ demand to see Yuri at once, when the object of their conversation emerged from behind the curtain, and slowly waddled his way across the room, pausing when he got to the bed and letting out a low groan. 

Immediately, Otabek disregarded his phone and the furious text conversation, and hurried to Yuri’s side, hovering next to him as he gritted his teeth-- like a hen whose feathers had been ruffled. 

“Hello, loves!” Both Yuri and Otabek looked up, completely having missed someone entering, and were met with the sight of a round nurse striding across the room, close-cut auburn hair almost certainly dyed, and glinting brown eyes maternal and confident. 

She reached Yuri, and, to Otabek’s surprise and discomfort (he tried not to bristle visibly) pushed Otabek aside to wrap a hand around Yuri’s arm and start moving him into bed. Yuri whimpered, and Otabek had to wonder if this was _really_ necessary while he was in the middle of a contraction-- couldn’t they wait a second? 

“There you go, dear,” she said, easing Yuri down against the pillows, “up you get, that’s it.” Yuri just looked at her, an expression of pure irritation that Otabek knew well settled on his otherwise pained features. “Now,” she said, whipping out a clipboard from God only knew where “time for check-in information.” 

What. 

Apparently Otabek’s expression communicated his thoughts, because the nurse (Rhonda, apparently, going by her nametag) turned to him and said “It helps if he’s distracted, eases the pain,” conspiratorially to him. 

Yuri did not look happy to be spoken of instead of to, but glared at Rhonda in between contractions, answering her questions through gritted teeth. It was only when she asked if Otabek was his husband (did their marital status matter? It was obvious that Otabek was Yuri’s support person… unless he didn’t want him to be) that Yuri let out a cry of pain, eyes squeezing shut as an apparently stronger contraction started up. 

“Are you his husband?” Rhonda turned to Otabek when Yuri didn’t answer, and apparently Yuri was annoyed enough to snap, 

_“Yes!”_ Through the pain, glaring daggers at her through teary eyes. 

Huh, Otabek couldn’t help but think; Yuri must’ve really been pissed off to lie like that. He was normally so firm about them being _separated._

The nurse’s eyes narrowed and a distinctly judgemental look crossed her face when Otabek hesitated to affirm Yuri’s claim, but he nodded hastily, and she scribbled something on her clipboard, eyes narrowed suspiciously.

By the time Rhonda left, both Otabek and Yuri _(especially_ Yuri; Otabek hadn’t seen him so irritated in _quite_ some time) were about ready to request another nurse, and Otabek was half sure that the only thing stopping Yuri from doing so was the fact that his contractions were coming so close together-- he didn’t have enough time to catch his breath and call for a replacement nurse before another had started up again. Indeed, when Rhonda (Otabek was quickly becoming convinced that her maternal quality was actually condescension manifesting in a patronizing way vaguely reminiscent to a mother speaking to a dim toddler) had examined Yuri, she had said that things were progressing quickly, and that there would likely be only an hour or two to wait. Yuri hadn’t seemed thrilled with the proclamation, but Rhonda had left shortly after, so he hadn’t complained. 

For the next 45 minutes, Yuri remained in bed, whimpers and groans gradually growing louder as the contractions became worse, Otabek sitting awkwardly in a chair beside him, hands clasped around its arms to keep himself from reaching out and taking Yuri’s hand, smoothing his sweat-drenched, blond hair away from his face. Yuri, too, never made any motion to request Otabek’s hand to hold, and gripped the sheets in white-knuckled fists, strain etched into every feature. 

When next Yuri was checked up on, Rhonda raised a skeptical eyebrow at the state of his hair: loose, tangled, and sticking to his face with sweat. 

“You might want to put that up,” she said to Yuri, gesturing vaguely to his head, “it’s better in the long run. Believe me, I know.” Yuri seemed tempted to ask her how many times _she_ had done this, but was stopped by another contraction, and let out a long, high groan. Rhonda continued on as if he hadn’t made a noise; “I think a braid would be best: they last longer than buns and ponytails, and stop the hair from tangling… more than it already has.” She amended, and _Otabek_ wanted to roll his eyes. “What do you think?” She asked Yuri, though Otabek wondered briefly if he was really comprehending what she said. “Do you want a braid?” 

She spoke as if to a child, and Otabek couldn’t decide if it was just another of her (apparently multitudinous) negative qualities, or if she was just an old hand at dealing with laboring parents, aware that excess formality was lost on them. 

Otabek’s first question was answered when Yuri nodded weakly, body going limp against the cushions behind him as the pain receded. Otabek blinked; _obviously,_ Yuri wasn’t aware of what he’d just agreed to, but at a, frankly terrifying, look from Rhonda, he moved forward slightly, prepared for Yuri to reject and rebuke him once he realized what he was trying to do. Instead, Yuri just lifted his head weakly from the pillow, giving Otabek better access. 

Otabek blinked. Slowly, carefully, giving Yuri plenty of time to pull away from him, he began to run his fingers through Yuri’s hair, finger brushing it in lieu of an actual comb. Ten minutes later, Yuri’s hair was secured in a neat Dutch braid, trailing over his shoulder. Otabek hadn’t realized how much he’d missed doing it, just the simple action of plaiting Yuri’s hair, and felt almost bereft when he had to eventually tie it off and back away. 

Throughout the entire ordeal, Yuri had been pliable, obviously making an effort to be still while he was in pain, and he blinked away tears when Otabek was done. The effort of immobility obviously hurt, Otabek thought, as he retreated to his seat. 

From then on, time started to blend together. Otabek got Yuri ice chips, got himself coffee from the vending machine, and was relieved that neither Victor nor Yuuri had burst in yet, demanding access to Yuri. When Otabek eventually looked at his phone again, finally remembering to ask Yuuri to feed Potya in the morning, he found that it was one am; they’d been at the hospital for four hours. 

Yuri certainly looked it, too: his face was simultaneously pale and flushed, stray wisps of hair stuck to his temples, and he looked tired enough that Otabek was starting to worry that he’d exhausted his supply of energy, and that he wouldn’t be able to hold out much longer. Yuri had almost cried when the nurse had come in an hour ago and told them that there would be at least another two hours, yet, and Otabek had grimaced in sympathy. 

When a nurse finally appeared again (Rhonda’s shift was now over, thank God), checking Yuri over, she squeezed his knee gently. “Eight centimeters,” she said, sympathetic, “not long, now.” 

Yuri, coming down from a particularly vicious contraction, just nodded, eyes shut and breath labored. 

*** 

It was 3:19 am when Yuri was declared to be fully dilated, and, as several nurses and a doctor moved around him, Otabek realized that he’d forgotten how to breathe. Which, as it seemed, was nothing to Yuri’s state, who apparently _couldn’t_ breathe. 

Ever since about 2:40, any semblance of dignity Yuri had stubbornly been clinging to had gone, leaving him high, dry, in pain, and breathless. The pain was near-constant, now, judging by Yuri’s demeanor, and his hands gripped and flexed on the air and the sheets. More than once he had reached an arm out before jerking and changing course to grab a hold of the side of the mattress. Each time it became harder for Otabek to refrain from taking his hand. 

Otabek’s entire body spasmed with the need to _help_ as a nurse guided Yuri into the stirrups, another taking his hand and asking him to scoot down the bed for her. The request came at the wrong time, it seemed, and Yuri just shook his head, crying inconsolably; Otabek gripped his knees hard, itching to move and comfort him. 

“Come on, Yuri,” the nurse said, wrapping an arm around him and helping him to sit up. “You can do it, just a little further,” 

Yuri cried out in pain, tears rolling down his cheeks. “I can’t,” he cried, “I need-- I need--” He gasped and choked, cutting himself off, and threw his head back into a silent scream as the nurse supported him. 

She glanced over to Otabek, raising her eyebrows and smiling slightly, “I think it’s time for you to step in, Dad.” She said, gesturing with her free hand to the space beside Yuri on the bed. “You heard him, he needs you!” Otabek highly doubted that Yuri had meant that he needed him, more likely that he _needed the pain to stop_ or he _needed help_ or even _a break,_ but at that moment Yuri let out a heart-breaking, gut-wrenching wail, and that made the decision for him. 

_“Beka!”_ He screamed, eyes screwed shut, and that was all Otabek needed to practically vault from his chair, pressing Yuri into his side on the bed and supporting him with an arm around his back as he eased him down the mattress. 

Yuri’s hands firmly gripping his own, his left arm snaked around his back and supporting him as he sat just behind and beside him, Otabek watched as his daughter was born into the world. Seeing her, a mess of chocolate brown hair on her head, bawling her eyes out with the strongest, tiniest voice he had ever heard, holding Yuri in his arms, who was already reaching weakly for the baby, Otabek couldn’t even begin to describe how he felt. 

The tiny baby was placed in Yuri’s arms, cleaned off by a nurse, and swaddled in a white blanket with a too-big white hat on; Yuri was still crying, but for the best reasons. 

Otabek realized that there were tears in his eyes, too, as he looked on, gazing at the two people he cared about most in the world: at his husband, at his tiny, baby girl who he had just met but was already overflowing with love for. Otabek felt warmth bubble up through his chest; it was like he couldn’t breathe, he loved them so much. 

Quietly, a tear dripped down Otabek’s cheek; it would kill him to let them go. 

*** 

Otabek refused to go that night, even when all of the hospital staff told him that he should get some sleep in his own bed, and eventually was stubborn enough that they relented and forced him to sleep in an on-call room, in lieu of sleeping in the chair next to Yuri’s bed-- next to the glass box their daughter slept in. She was so beautiful; Otabek felt like he was suffocating with how much he loved her.

Otabek woke around 8:15 the next morning, ridiculously early for having gone to bed around 5:30 (his daughter had been born at 4:27 that morning, and both he and Yuri had been instructed to get some sleep while a nurse sequestered the infant away to the nursery for an hour or so to be weighed and such), but he was unable to stay asleep any longer, the adrenaline from last night still rushing through him. Determined not to bother Yuri, (God knew he needed to sleep) Otabek wandered aimlessly through the hospital for a few hours, eventually finding himself in the cafeteria and buying a coffee and a muffin for himself and a coffee (he could have a small one, the nurse had said) and a less gross-looking pastry for Yuri. When he examined his purchases more extensively, though, Otabek decided that it would be better to just run out to a cafe and pick up something better -- something with coconut in it, he thought -- for Yuri. 

By the time Otabek got back to the hospital, it was almost lunchtime, and when he looked through the window in Yuri’s door, he found him awake, the baby in his arms, and a soft smile on his face. His expression was so open and loving, Otabek felt bad for intruding on what was clearly a private moment. 

He gave Yuri three minutes (he was physically vibrating to get into the room to see his family again: three was really all he could manage) before knocking, and tried to enter at a normal speed. 

Otabek gave Yuri the coffee and pastry (he’d decided on a slice of the almond coconut braid from the cafe’s display case-- Yuri had loved the one he’d tried in France) wordlessly, and stood at his shoulder to look at the baby. 

She was awake, light blue eyes blinking curiously up at them, and a tiny hand grasped at the edge of the blanket she was wrapped in, evidently having Houdini’d its way out of the swaddle. Otabek looked at her over Yuri’s shoulder, and sucked in a little breath when her gaze swiveled to land on him, even though he logically knew that she couldn’t see anything further than a foot away from her face. Yuri ran a gentle finger over her chubby, baby cheek and she made a cooing sound. Otabek’s heart squeezed. 

Neither of them moved for a long time, save for Yuri’s slow caresses of the infant in his arms, and after what felt both like a century and no time at all, there was a knock at the door, and Victor and Yuuri came into the room. 

Victor carried several shopping bags (Otabek was sure they were baby items from the gift shop downstairs) and Yuuri a few balloons and flowers. Otabek also noticed a card held between two fingers, _“Congratulations, Yuri!!”_ written on it in pink glitter pen, balloons and bunny rabbits scrawled on the front. Otabek would bet anything _(almost_ anything) that it was from Yuri’s students at the dance studio. 

Victor didn’t even spare Otabek a glance, dumping the bags on a chair and coming right up to Yuri’s side, opposite from where Otabek stood. He wore a heart-shaped smile, and there were tears in Yuuri’s eyes as he gazed down at the baby from next to his husband. Otabek averted his gaze; he pulled himself away from them and muttered something about a cup of coffee, ignoring the fact that he’d already had two, that morning. Yuri should have privacy to show off his new baby: Otabek wouldn’t intrude. 

Another cup of coffee and a banana later, Otabek had wasted 45 minutes and was officially out of patience. He wanted to hold his little girl: he _needed_ to experience the sensation of holding his child for the first time. The yearning for it was like a physical urge, pulling him through the corridors and back to Yuri’s room, where he met Victor and Yuuri, just leaving. 

The door closed behind them and Victor kept his gaze firmly on the floor as he passed. Yuuri looked Otabek in the eye. 

Words weren’t necessary: that one look was all Otabek needed to know exactly what had happened. 

Something small and cold slipped down Otabek’s throat, and as Yuuri got on the elevator, he stood there, staring at the closed doors behind which every chance of salvation had disappeared. 

Something drained from Otabek’s chest, any small spark of hope flickering and dying, leaving only cold, bleak resignation to grow in its wake. Slowly, as he opened the door to Yuri’s room, Otabek wondered if he’d ever get to hold his daughter. He doubted it. 

*** 

Quietly, Otabek entered the room, not wanting to disturb the baby should she be asleep. Yuri made no move to acknowledge him as he entered, and his gaze remained firmly fixed on his daughter’s sleeping face as Otabek came to stand beside him, looking over his shoulder at the baby in his arms. 

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Yuri’s voice was soft, subdued; hushed and calm as though he, too, didn’t want to disturb anything. 

“Victor?” Otabek asked quietly. His gaze didn’t stray from the infant asleep in his ex-husband’s arms. 

“Yuuri,” Yuri corrected, his eyes still not lifting from the infant’s face. 

Otabek nodded, all of his energy leaching away. “Yuri, I--” Otabek broke off. He didn’t know what to say. So he settled for what he hadn’t been allowed to. “I’m sorry.” 

“Why?” 

Otabek wanted to cry, and he shook his head; lost, defeated. Broken. “I never meant--” he tried, “I never wanted any of this to happen.” 

“So why did it?” Unlike so often, Yuri’s voice held no heat, no challenge or accusation. It was just soft; quiet. “Why didn’t you tell me?” And there it was again. 

“It was too late,” Otabek shook his head, exhausted. “I couldn’t fix it. Nothing I could’ve done could make it right.” 

“All these months,” Yuri murmured, running a gentle finger along the baby’s soft cheek. “You never said anything. You just let it happen. You let me push you into a divorce you don’t want.” 

“It’s better for you,” Otabek’s voice was low. He gazed over Yuri’s shoulder at the tiny, pink, sleeping baby. She was so beautiful. “That’s what matters.” 

“But you don’t want it.” It wasn’t a question. 

Otabek knew it, now: all was lost. They had reached the point of no return. 

“No,” he said quietly, sadly. “I don’t.” 

“Beka?” And at last, _at last,_ Yuri turned from the baby, looking Otabek in the eye. “I don’t want to get divorced.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ♥  
> Do you guys have any ideas on what the baby's name will be? It's _so pretty!_ Comment ideas below!
> 
> **EPILOGUE WILL BE POSTED ON OCTOBER 2ND.**
> 
> (ALSO: I'm participating in a collab with @venom_for_free and over a dozen creators. _Superfan_ is an Otayuri work that I think you guys will love! Fanfic, fanart, cosplay, crazy comment chains: it has it all! Primarily As Venom's story, it'll be published on her channel, and I highly recommend that you check it out!)
> 
> If you want to, comments mean the world to me, and I'd truly love to know how you feel about this story, the ending, and everything else. ♥


	11. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 10 Recap: I really hope you remember. Yuri willingly watches _Phantom_ and Otabek almost has a heart attack when he walks in on it. Yuri gives birth and, afterward, Yuuri tells Yuri what Otabek refused to. Finally, we end on Yuri admitting that he doesn't want to get divorced.

Yuri stood just outside of Studio C, leaning against the doorframe as he took in his class, heads bent as they ran through the final leg of their warm ups. It was strange to be back in the studio: at once it felt incredibly natural, like a limb had been reattached, and as though everything had changed. Though, Yuri couldn’t help but concede himself, it had.

It was Ekaterina who noticed him first, though Lilia’s lips had been twitching subtly as she stood at the front of the room before the mirrors, checking positions with her bird’s eye focus and preying on un-turned out feet and the residual tension of the shoulders. Normally, it would be strange that Yuri stood there for a solid two and a half minutes before any of the students became aware of his presence, but Yuri wasn’t surprised: he remembered well the laser focus and concentrated precision that came with dancing under Lilia; one didn’t break their form long enough to even contemplate looking up. 

There were no stray eyes, all focused exactly where they should be as the students devoted themselves mind and body to the stretches, and so it was only when the dancers were rolling up from their hanging stretch (bent at the waist, allowing their entire upper body to relax) and their eyes travelled over the mirrors that there were several gasps, and Ekaterina spun on the spot to face Yuri.

Yuri remarked to himself, with more than a little badly concealed amusement, that the change in position had been less than graceful, Ekaterina still having been curled over at an 120 degree angle when she’d moved, but her dancer’s grace saved her and she showed no sign of imbalance. 

“Yuri!” She cried immediately, eyes glowing, as the rest of the class turned, more smoothly, to face Yuri, as well. “You’re back!”

Yuri rolled his eyes, something he would never try with another, younger class, but that he felt he could get away with, with this one. (Lilia tutted, all the same, and a few of the dancers chuckled.) 

“I am not _back,”_ Yuri said firmly, though he pushed off from his position leaning against the doorframe, all the same. “I’m on maternity leave until March, but I wanted to see how badly you’re butchering my programs, before the Christmas show.”

His words went unheeded, though, and he watched as his dancers’ eyes fell from his face to land at his feet. 

Yuri didn’t even try to suppress a small, proud smile as he bent down and caught the handle of the carrier, walking into the room and enjoying the excitement drawn by his daughter’s appearance. Or lack there of it, really, and Yuri set the carrier down in front of the mirrors before lifting the gauzy, white blanket that had covered its mouth to peer in at the baby inside.

She blinked sleepily up at him, entirely uninterested in whatever he was playing at as he lifted her gently into his arms, and Yuri chuckled as the dewy, green eyes widened slightly, likely intrigued by the light reflected off of the mirrors.

There was extensive cooing as Yuri held the baby carefully before him so all of his students could get a good look. Many of the girls appeared delighted and many of the boys appeared bored (Yuri couldn’t blame them: he’d been the same way) and praise was rained down on the infant who was thoroughly preoccupied with staring at a point on the ceiling, wholly fascinated. She was already so much like him, Yuri thought: she preened under attention but would never show it. He could tell she enjoyed the admiration, though, and she pulled out her party trick of yawning and scrunching her little nose so everyone “aww”ed. 

Lilia came up beside Yuri and her eyes crinkled very slightly at the corners-- her way of smiling. She had already met the baby, of course, had visited barely two days after she was born, and was taking to her role of unofficial but pretty-fucking-official grandmother excellently. Yuri loved that she openly adored his child (even though Lilia remained loath to smile among aspiring dancers) and hadn’t yet missed the spark of pride in her eyes when she watched him with his baby.

“She’s so beautiful,” someone sighed, their voice carrying above the hubbub of similar comments, and Yuri allowed himself a proud, little nod of the head.

“Thank you.” Yuri refrained from adding an ‘I know’ onto the end of the statement. “But she isn’t what this class is about.”

Yuri moved back to the carrier and carefully returned his daughter inside, buckling her in. He stood and clapped his hands, his dancers snapping to attention, immediately. It was good to be back.

“Starting positions,” Yuri called, and watched as everyone shuffled around obligingly, “this had better be amazing-- I’ve been getting reports, and if I see even _one_ unpointed toe, all hell will break loose.” Yuri caught Ekaterina’s tiny smile as she froze in place.

***

“By next class, make sure that you have that spin down,” Yuri said to Dmitri as the class released their final cool-down stretch. “You’re flexible-- milk it for all it’s worth.” 

He nodded, and retreated with the rest of the class as Yuri released them to the locker rooms. 

“Ekaterina,” Yuri called, stopping the girl in her tracks as she made to file out of the studio with the rest of her class. “Stay back a moment.” 

She nodded, retracing her steps to the front of the room to stand before Yuri. Yuri waited until the clicking of Lilia’s heels had receded to the hallway before he stooped and gathered a sleepy baby into his arms. He didn’t think that she’d make a fuss, yet: he hoped that the repeated renditions of her favorite song had put her in a good mood, but he watched her expression carefully for any sign of discontent. Besides a sleepy, little sigh, there was none.

“She’s beautiful,” Ekaterina said, eyes fixed on the baby’s face, chocolate brown hair curling around her ears and green eyes fixed unblinkingly, though they drooped, somewhere overhead.

“Do you want to hold her?” Yuri asked softly, and, a look of surprise flitting across her face, Ekaterina nodded. 

Carefully, Yuri lowered the infant into her arms, making sure that the baby’s head was nestled safely into the crook of Ekaterina’s elbow before gingerly removing his hands. Even after a month of having her, Yuri was still _so scared_ that somehow his daughter would get hurt-- it was a feeling he guessed would never go away.

“There you go,” Yuri murmured as Ekaterina began to rock the baby gently, a small smile on her face as the infant snuffled. Yuri smiled, “You look good together,” he said and Ekaterina nodded in thanks, eyes still on the baby’s face. “Do you want to know her name?” Yuri asked and Ekaterina looked up, confused. “I know that I told the class it was Katya,” Yuri said quickly, “but that’s just a nickname. Her full name,” he waited a moment for dramatic emphasis, the previously dormant, theatrical part of him coming out to shine and terrorize in equal measure. “Is Ekaterina Otabekyzy Plisetsky-Altin.” 

The elder Ekaterina inhaled sharply through her nose, looking up immediately to Yuri’s face. She found only a soft smile, and watched, momentarily lost for words, as Yuri reached out and ran a gentle finger along his daughter’s cheek. 

“Do you mean,” she breathed at last, eyes wide and face awed.

“Yes,” Yuri replied, and put a hand on her shoulder. “I couldn’t imagine something more fitting. These last few months,” he shook his head. “Were the hardest I’ve ever lived. Your help,” he looked her in the eye, almost sternly, “was was more valuable than I could ever explain: I mean it when I say that I couldn’t have managed without you.” 

Ekaterina just stared at him. 

“You’ll go far,” Yuri continued, a proud, slow smile growing on his face, “and there is no doubt in my mind that with your talent and your kindness, you’ll be the star of the Mariinsky Ballet.”

Finally, a small smile appeared on Ekaterina’s lips. “I leave just after the Christmas show. I was hoping I could finish out the season, here, but they wanted me for their spring performance.”

Yuri grinned and shook his head; he was _so_ proud of her. “I can’t say I’m surprised,” he tilted his head, “you’ve always been an excellent dancer,” and then, just to diffuse the tears making their near-inevitable way into the moment, “but if you don’t send us tickets to every show, I’m suing.”

Ekaterina laughed out loud and glanced down at her namesake in her arms, who had gurgled enthusiastically in the adorable way she did whenever she was excited, “I will.”

*** 

_One month later_

***

Yuri tugged at the hem of his skirt as he sat down, smoothing it over his lap and wondering again if this was _such_ a good idea. Yes, the babysitter might’ve been a 35-year-old, fully qualified nanny, and _yes,_ she might’ve had a masters in child development, and, okay, _maybe_ she had cared for infants countless times and come out with glowing reviews, but Katya was only two months old! Yuri didn’t know how he’d managed to leave her behind, at all, that night, and even though _logically_ he knew that bringing a 9-week-old baby to a several-hour-long, evening performance was a recipe for disaster, it was his first time leaving her, and not having her within his sight at all times was just plain _wrong._

In an effort to distract himself, Yuri opened the playbill in his hands, eyes skimming the set lists and performance numbers even though he knew them by heart, comprehending nothing. At last, deciding that he’d been good and hadn’t texted the sitter, yet, and for that, naturally, he deserved a reward, Yuri grabbed his phone, thinking that he’d content himself with a simple _“how’s everything going?”._ He didn’t even get as far as the passcode, though, for a hand gently pulled his phone from his fingers.

“She’ll be fine,” Otabek said and Yuri nodded as if he agreed, ignoring the warmth in his chest at the feel of Otabek’s fingers over his. 

They weren’t back to normal, obviously, and had agreed that they likely wouldn’t be able to fix… whatever the fuck _was_ their relationship, for some time, but had made a start and had begun couple’s therapy. They wouldn’t be returning to anything resembling intimacy for several months, but Yuri couldn’t help the small, tentative happiness he felt whenever Otabek did something like this; even if he only brushed his fingers over the back of Yuri’s hand when trading Katya for a burping or a diaper change, just knowing that Otabek was _right there_ made Yuri feel better.

The next hour and a half was enjoyable: fun, even, were it not that Yuri couldn’t _quite_ banish his worries from his mind (what if Matilda didn’t turn off the oven properly? What if Katya didn’t go down easily? What if Potya got into the room and sat on her face?!), but when “Instructor Yuri Plisetsky’s Advanced Lyrical Class” took to the stage, “performing to “All I Ask of You” from the musical _The Phantom of the Opera”,_ Yuri couldn’t suppress a nervous, sideways glance at Otabek.

Suddenly extremely awkward, Yuri fiddled with his hair, becoming momentarily surprised when he found it to be silky, freshly washed, and foid of any baby bodily fluids. Yuri smoothed his skirt in his lap, again, a sense of dreadful vulnerability washing over him as the music started and, on stage, Inna began to move.

Four minutes and fifty-two seconds later, Yuri rose, buoyed with the rest of the crowd, to his feet and clapped as his dancers received a standing ovation for what Yuri had to admit was their best performance of the routine, yet. Returning to his seat and making an effort not to either catch Otabek’s eyes or appear unapproachable should he wish to comment on the dance, Yuri stared determinedly at the stage, completely ignoring the ten-year-olds in tutus already clomping around on it.

Quietly, after a moment of silence, Otabek spoke. “That was beautiful,” he said softly, vaguely unsure but confident enough to speak, nonetheless. Gently, he added, “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” Was all Yuri could manage around the soft, warm feeling in his chest.

***

_Two months later_

***

Otabek made his way through the airport, checking signs and hoping that he’d remembered the number of his flight’s baggage claim correctly. It was nearing three am and he was dead tired from travel, wanting more than anything to get back home and see his husband _(husband!!),_ kiss his probably sleeping baby, and collapse into bed for a solid 10 hours of rest; lost baggage or getting lost on the _way_ to said baggage did not factor into the equation.

It was with relief that Otabek caught sight of his flight number on an overhead board, and approached the carousel, every atom in his body singing as he spotted his black, nondescript suitcase trundling toward him on the converyorbelt, only identifiable by the neon pink bag tag Yuri had gotten him years ago and forced him to attach to his suitcase for easier identification during competitions.

Otabek heaved the case off of the carousel and, pausing a moment to grab the suitcase of a pregnant woman, as well, he made his way back through the airport to the taxi bay, not even considering calling for a ride. With a barely four-month-old baby at home, it was safe to say that both he and Yuri were walking zombies, sleep-deprived with the best of them, and, though Otabek highly doubted that Yuri would sleep through the night tonight (Katya was a menace; an adorable menace, but a menace, nonetheless), he most certainly wasn’t going to drag him out with a cranky baby in tow just to greet him upon his landing.

Honestly, Otabek felt guilty just for having left Yuri alone, to begin with. Even though he’d only been away for six days, caring for an infant, a particularly stubborn one, at that, was demanding, and, while Otabek had been able to use the time away to catch up on sleep, he knew that Yuri would be doubly exhausted, now doing the work of two people in baby-care and nightly crying-checks-- _especially_ now they were failing to sleep-train Katya. If he were to be honest, Otabek wouldn’t have left at all, had Yuri not urged him to.

When Yuri and Otabek had pulled out of going to the Rostelecom Cup as guest skaters on their offer from the ISU after their retirement, obviously due to the 5-week-old newborn in their care, the ISU had asked, instead, if one or both of them would like to make a guest appearance at Worlds, the competition being held, for the first time ever, in Almaty, Kazakhstan. Otabek couldn’t refuse.

Or, more accurately, he _would’ve_ refused, but Yuri hadn’t let him. His argument had been persuasive: “When is this ever going to happen again? Are you seriously going to miss the _first ever_ Worlds in Almaty? It’s only six days-- we’ll be _fine."_ And, after some deliberation, Otabek had agreed. Honestly, he had just been happy to see Yuri so insistent about something.

The therapy and their necessary codependence in the parenting of and survival with Katya, had brought them closer, almost to the point of not-quite-platonic best friends, and, while the life was back in Yuri’s eyes, he was still a far cry from the Yuri of a year ago. To see him stubborn and calling Otabek an idiot (they had both been very sleep-deprived; Otabek had a feeling that Yuri’s patience had been _very_ thin to say something like that with no second thoughts) for not immediately accepting the invitation was really all Otabek had needed to agree.

Still, though, he had no doubt that the past week had been hard on Yuri, and he fully intended to make it up to him. He didn’t think, though, that he would begin doing so the second he unlocked the door and stepped inside the house.

Otabek had barely shut the door behind him when a flying, blond blur appeared on the stairs, and the next second his arms were full of a disheveled, _sobbing_ Yuri. He clung to Otabek, arms winding around his neck, desperately, and cried into his chest, having practically thrown himself upon him on his entrance.

Shocked and immediately terrified, Otabek hesitated only the barest of seconds before wrapping his arms around Yuri and holding him close. They hadn’t embraced yet, had barely even held hands, and were deliberately taking things slowly, working out their feelings and their issues, first, before diving back into their marriage. Still, though, even after all of this time apart, it felt natural to have Yuri in his arms, and Otabek tightened his grip around him, worry clouding his mind at Yuri’s state.

_What was wrong? Had he missed something? Had Yuri called and not been able to get through? Oh, God, what if something terrible had happened? What if something was wrong with Katya? What if--_

“I can’t--” Yuri sobbed, “She won’t-- I can’t--”

“Yura,” Otabek asked, eyes wide, voice urgent, “what’s wrong? What happened? Is Katya--”

“I-I--” Yuri choked, sobbing harder into Otabek’s sweater, “I can’t do it! She won’t-- s-she won’t stop c-crying!” And, as understanding dawned on Otabek, he became aware of the high-pitched wailing filtering down the stairs.

“Yura,” Otabek said, gently pushing Yuri back from him to get a good look at him. His face was splotchy and red and there were deep, purple bags under his eyes-- certainly worse than they had been when Otabek had left. “When was the last time you slept?”

Yuri just let out a broken wail and shook his head. Otabek sighed sympathetically and pulled him back into his arms, holding him in what he hoped was a comforting embrace. He’d called twice a day every day and Yuri had said that everything was going _fine._ Otabek shook his head and pressed his lips to Yuri’s hair, rubbing his back soothingly as he cried.

After what felt like five minutes had passed, Otabek carefully detached himself from Yuri (though that was the last thing he wanted to do, right then) and said sternly, hoping to reach his husband through the tears and compacted sleep-deprivation, “Yura, go to bed.” As expected, Yuri immediately began to shake his head, crying something about the baby, but Otabek interrupted. “You need to sleep-- I’ll take care of Katya, just get some rest, okay?” After a second or so, Yuri nodded, and allowed Otabek to guide him upstairs and leave him in the doorway to the master bedroom. 

Wanting painfully to follow Yuri when he disappeared behind the door, Otabek continued down the hallway to the last room, entering to find a red-faced, tear-streaked Katya bawling her eyes out from her crib. 

Otabek sighed softly, kissing his hope of an early night goodbye, and closed the door firmly behind him, hoping to block most of the noise from reaching Yuri, knowing that he’d never be able to relax, much less sleep, if he heard it.

Walking over to the crib, Otabek leaned over and picked up his daughter, her tiny eyes almost closed with tears flowing out of them as she screamed. Otabek shushed her softly as he held her to his chest, beginning to pace the room. Within half an hour, ten minutes of pacing, and twenty of rocking, Katya was out like a light on Otabek’s chest, and he looked down at her soft, sleeping face as he stroked her short, brown curls gently, the touch of his fingers a mere whisper.

When Yuri found him the next morning, asleep in the rocking chair in the nursery, Katya nestled on his shoulder, his arms around her, he gave a worn, exhausted smile and took a picture for the scrapbook.

***

_Four months later_

***

Yuri hovered in front of the high chair, carefully scooping a baby bite-sized spoonful of coconut yogurt and banana puree mush into the tiny, pink and white, plastic baby spoon in his hand. Otabek stood next to him, making silly faces at Katya while Yuri began the battle that was trying to get the baby food in the baby’s mouth and not on the baby’s cheeks, chin, chest, or, shockingly, in her hair. How she had managed that, Yuri would never know.

Katya let out a deep, belly laugh (the first time they had heard it, both Yuri and Otabek had burst out laughing, which only caused the infant’s infectious giggles to continue) at the face Otabek was currently making (Yuri just _knew_ that he had his hands up like moose antlers on either side of his head and was sticking his tongue out; that face _always_ elicited the belly laugh from Katya) and, once he was sure that she wasn’t inhaling, Yuri took the opportunity to gently but firmly push the spoon into her mouth.

At first, the baby frowned, disliking the foreign, plastic intrusion (the little monster was _so_ hard to feed; Yuri loved her more than life itself) and Yuri braced himself to distract her before she could cry, already starting to make a silly face next to Otabek’s, but, amazingly, the wrinkles cleared from his daughter’s face and she swallowed. Yuri blinked. He gave her another spoonful of the banana/coconut mush and she accepted it, albeit reluctantly. By the fourth taste, she was allowing the spoon without any objection, and Yuri couldn’t bite back a grin when Katya smiled, banana and coconut dripping down her chin, eager for more. He turned to Otabek,

“You’re officially wrong,” he said triumphantly, emboldened by his success with feeding the baby and a particularly good therapy appointment that afternoon (the second they’d walked in, the doctor had taken one look at them and given them a knowing look: she was right, they’d had _amazing_ sex that morning). “She likes coconut, too; I _knew_ she would.”

Otabek rolled his eyes, and Yuri knew that he was feeling equally lighthearted through the playful gesture. “You’ve just conditioned her to be wrong with you,” he replied, and, when Katya started cooing and gurgling in her Demanding Way ™, signaling that _she wanted more,_ he just shook his head and murmured fondly, “freaks.” 

Yuri grinned, blew him a kiss, and turned back to their baby.

***

_Two years and two months later_

***

“Do you need to go to the bathroom?”

Katya shook her head, curls bouncing. 

“Do you need a drink from the water fountain?” Otabek tried. 

Head shake. 

“Do you remember what we’re going to do?”

Katya bit her lip in a look of faux concentration (Yuri had proclaimed loudly the first time he’d seen it that he would never forgive Victor for teaching her that) before shaking her head, her expression Very Serious and not at all like she was trying not to giggle.

Otabek sighed fondly, exasperated with his spirited, _stubborn_ three-year-old, and poked her on the nose. She squealed, jerking backwards into Yuri’s lap and covering her nose with small hands, grinning mischievously, all the while.

Yuri glanced up, deftly wrapping an arm around the little girl teetering dangerously on his lap and securing her. He smirked at Otabek, “Apparently Ekaterina has a truly horrendous headpiece,” he stated, “she won’t send me a picture, though. Do you think I could take back the namesake thing? I think Katya would look good as an Arina.”

Otabek snorted, “Peace, really? Her?” As if to cement his point, Katya chose that exact moment to lunge forward, escaping Yuri’s hold, and managed to smack Otabek in the nose with a tiny, ineffectual fist before overbalancing and falling into his lap, giggling wildly. 

Yuri snorted. “You win,” he replied, before going back to his phone as Otabek returned to the little monster in his lap. Another minute or two of tickling ensued, and, in the hopes of calming down, Otabek repeated his earlier question.

“Katya,” he said, “do you know what we’re going to do?” 

She shrugged. 

“We’re going to watch Ekaterina dance, remember? Your _favorite_ babysitter?” Otabek reminded her, and, with difficulty, held in his laugh when Katya’s eyes lit up and she nodded madly. “And what are we going to do while she dances?” Otabek asked.

Katya thought for a second, putting a finger to her lips in another unforgivably-taught fashion.

“Be _loud!”_ Katya cried at last and Otabek rolled his eyes, pulling her into his chest and poking her belly-- in the process, completely forgetting that he had wanted to calm her down.

“No, not _be loud,_ you little monster,” Otabek scolded playfully, pretending that he didn’t notice as Yuri started recording his vicious tickle-battle with their daughter. “We’re going to be _quiet._ Don’t you remember? If we’re not _quiet,_ then we can’t see Ekaterina dance-- and we don’t want that, do we?” 

Still struggling to breathe through her giggles, Katya shook her head.

***

Otabek held Katya aloft in his arms as he and Yuri stood with the crowd, beaming at the dancers on the stage of the Mariinsky Ballet-- Ekaterina front and center.

Katya screeched praise, clapping enthusiastically and, eyes searching the crowd, Ekaterina laughed quietly when she found her, high in the air and waving. Subtly, she gave a wave in return, eyes sparkling under the thick, stage makeup and the fabled headpiece resting over her bun.

Naturally, that was the first thing Katya pointed out when Ekaterina approached their little party after leaving the stage.

“You were wonderful,” Yuri smiled, pulling her into a hug, though he was careful not to crush her tutu. “Your black swan was one of the best I’ve seen.”

Ekaterina laughed, “Thanks. Those fouettes were killer-- you have no idea how hard it was to keep the hat on, even with the bobby pins.” She grimaced and patted her head, “Even with the pins out, I can feel them digging into my scalp.”

Yuri snorted, nodding and eyeing her headpiece. “You weren’t lying-- that truly is awful.” Otabek had just opened his mouth to compliment Ekaterina’s performance and defend the hat-- really, it was just black tulle and some… shiny thing-- it wasn’t _that_ bad -- when Katya chose her moment to enter the conversation. She let out an audible, dramatic gasp and pointed emphatically to the… garment thingy residing atop Ekaterina’s head-- she’d been forced to wear it for pictures, apparently.

Ekaterina grinned, bending slightly at the waist to be on level with her namesake, held aloft in her father’s arms. “Do you like it?” She asked, and, eyes wide and awe-filled, Katya nodded slowly. 

It was like she was in a trance-- her mouth gaped and she bore a close resemblance to Potya high on catnip, Otabek couldn’t help but think. 

“I don’t think it looks very good on me,” Ekaterina said, carefully lifting the crown-like contraption from its place, nestled in an intricate braid structure (Otabek made a note to try that on Yuri), “but,” she flashed a smile, “it would go _perfectly_ with your coat. Do you want to try it on?”

Katya nodded excitedly and was very still as Ekaterina gently placed the headpiece on her head. Made to be small and worn on the crown of someone’s head, the hat-ish-thing just fit over Katya’s ears, and her grin and exclamation of delight had them all in giggles. 

Otabek smiled, standing back and watching as Yuri took photos of Katya and Ekaterina side-by-side, grinning into the camera and each holding their leg up as high as they could-- for Ekaterina, up to her head, for Katya, almost level with her hip. Coming to stand next to him, Otabek slung an arm around Yuri’s waist, pulling him to his side in a gentle hug. Yuri glanced over, playful, pleasant confusion written on his face, and kissed him.

***

_One year later_

***

“Beka?” Yuri called down the stairs, shrugging on a light sweater over the baby blue, knee-length dress he wore. Really, it was too cold to go out dressed like that, it being late March, but Yuri had been running hot, recently, and didn’t care enough to exert the effort to change. “Can you get Katya’s shoes on? Don’t let her wear the flats-- it’s still too wet outside.”

“Yeah,” Otabek called over his shoulder as Yuri rounded the corner to descend the last flight of stairs-- why the architect of the house had decided that three were necessary, he would never know, but he certainly wasn’t appreciating it, at the moment. 

Otabek knelt in front of the couch, just visible from the hall, as he pulled Katya’s boots on-- much to the four-year-old’s displeasure. She’d been doing her best to convince them that _she_ was old enough to make her own fashion choices, lately, (a fact that Yuri had struggled with ever since she’d declined his proffered leopard-print sweater to select a brown one) but she was still far too inclined towards shorts and sandals to be allowed free agency during the winter months, so she was stubbornly stationed on the sofa, arms crossed, lips pouty, cheeks puffed, as Otabek tried to keep her from swinging her legs long enough to gently force her pink snow boots onto her feet. It wasn’t too snowy out, but there was slush and that was enough to warrant boots: there would be no cold, frozen toes on Otabek’s watch. Formerly, there wouldn’t have been on Yuri’s, either, but recently he’d been reallocated from the shoe-typing department to that of hats and gloves.

The boots were firmly in place by the time Yuri reached the ground floor, and, standing while swinging Katya off of the couch and to the floor, Otabek gave him his Disapproving Look ™. It was one normally reserved for Katya, and Yuri was appropriately shamefaced.

“Are you really going to wear that?” Otabek asked, walking toward Yuri with a look of exasperation-- this was a long-fought, long- _lost_ battle, and he didn’t expect his complaint to accomplish anything except reestablish his position. “Be an example to Katya-- I wouldn’t let her wear her grey dress-- how can I let you wear that?”

“Because you know that there is absolutely no way I am going back upstairs and changing now,” Yuri said, moving forward to don his coat as a show of goodwill-- a light, flimsy one, but a coat, nonetheless. “And don’t even mention the grey dress. God, she really is your daughter: she chose it over rainbow!”

“It’s a pretty dress.”

_“Rainbow!”_

Otabek chuckled and wrapped his arms briefly around Yuri, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “Forget the dress. And you don’t have to get changed upstairs, you know,” he added, smirking as he walked away to grab his coat while Yuri outfitted a protesting Katya with purple, woollen mittens. “You could always pull a Mr. Bean and get changed in the car.”

Yuri snorted, “I don’t think so,” he said, shaking his head at the reference. It was from a stupid British movie, but they had watched it that Friday for their ‘movie night’ and it had been entertaining-- even if the tank crushing the main character’s Mini had made Yuri cry. 

“Ready?” Yuri asked his daughter, who was pulling, sullen and halfheartedly, at the tips of her mittens. “Have you used the bathroom?” Potty Training had officially been completed (much to both parents’ delight) but Yuri and Otabek still made sure their daughter had relieved herself if they were going to be away from home for an extended period of time. While Katya was good about going to the bathroom when she needed to, at home, she was less vocal about it when they were out, and several accidents had occurred for that reason.

The child in question nodded and brightened, apparently having a Lightbulb Moment. “Are--” she began, interrupting herself in her excitement as small children so often do, “Are we going to see the baby?”

Yuri smiled and nodded, running a hand over her silky, raven curls. “We are,” he said, and let his left hand drift to his abdomen, swollen and heavy with a second child. “But only pictures-- we don’t get to meet the baby for another few weeks, yet.”

Not really understanding but choosing this particular moment to be obedient and not start in on her recent proclivity of ‘why?’s, Katya just nodded and reached up to pat the bottom of Yuri’s stomach, -- as high as she could reach -- tiny fingers warm and slightly sticky through the fabric. 

Ah, so she’d managed to finagle her mitten off without him noticing, Yuri thought, and replaced it-- much to Katya’s obvious disappointment, too, if the crestfallen downward curve of her little, pink, rosebud lips was anything to go by.

Katya didn’t have much time to brood over this recent injustice, though, for they left the house then, Otabek draping a squealing Katya over his shoulder when she tried to slide around on an icy patch of the front walk. Turning back to (unnecessarily, Yuri would, and did, add) help Yuri over the icy patch without the risk of a fall, Otabek kept a secure arm around the little girl’s waist and grinned that uninhibited, utterly _bright_ smile he smiled whenever playing with his daughter. He’d worn it since the first time he’d held her, and Yuri had a feeling that it wouldn’t fade until he himself did-- and that it would extend to the little one on the way.

Yuri let a hand fall to rest on his abdomen, smoothing the thin fabric of his skirt over it, and spent the car ride to the doctor’s office entertaining Katya with silly, little stories and watching how her eyes crinkled in the exact same way Otabek’s did, when she laughed.

They were shepherded into the open, bright waiting room they knew so well, by now, having come to the doctor’s office for multitudinous, frantic, why-won’t-she-stop-crying-my-baby-is-dying visits, pediatrician appointments, and, both most recently and long ago, prenatal appointments.

The room was the same as it had been that first time-- the same cheery, yellow paint job, portraits of grinning families on the walls, but, with a child and husband in tow, it felt infinitely different. For one thing, Yuri sat down in the pediatric side of the waiting room this time, easing himself carefully down onto the padded bench lining the divide between specialties and swatting ineffectually at Otabek’s hand when it made its way to the small of his back to help him down.

“I have yet to become a complete invalid, you know.” Yuri snarked, but couldn’t quite hold his sarcastic tone when Katya raced like a brown-haired, green-eyed flash across the playplace and dove into the playhouse, a smile peeking out and curling his lips. 

Otabek, following his gaze, laughed when the little girl’s head poked through the opening again, looking thoroughly put out that she hadn’t been followed. Dutifully responding to the call (whine) of “Come play with me!” Otabek shot an exasperated, fond smile Yuri’s way as he trooped across the room and, all of a sudden, lunged down to his knees where Katya’s head poked out; said head emitted a loud, shrill squeal of joy and disappeared back inside the house.

For a while, Yuri sat and watched their shenanigans, laughing openly when Otabek smacked his head on the entrance of the playhouse and his previously menacing growl had turned into a high grunt of pain. (Katya had become distressed at her father’s injury and had lost no time in kissing it better.) Before too long, though, Katya crawled out from her hiding spot, directing a firm ‘no’ at Otabek when he made as though to start tickling her, again (Yuri’s lips were white from how hard he was trying not to laugh), evidently distressed that Yuri wasn’t participating.

“Mama,” she tugged at Yuri’s hand from where she stood beside the bench he was seated on. “Come play!” She pointed demonstratively toward the playhouse in its little niche against the wall, Otabek walking over from it.

Yuri shook his head, “I don’t want to play, right now,” he said, because matters such as pregnancy and the logistics of kneeling while 36 weeks along would mean nothing to his daughter. “Why don’t you play with your dad?”

Frowning, Katya shook her head. “I want you to play!” She demanded and Otabek looked slightly affronted at the lack of allure she apparently felt at his being her sole playmate. “Please?” She even gave the puppy dog eyes she had _definitely_ inherited from Otabek. The little, wonderful, adorable shit.

“No, honey,” Yuri shook his head, again, smiling softly. “I’m tired-- why don’t you play for me?” 

Contrary to Yuri’s hopes, though, Katya’s eyebrows creased and she frowned. Apparently deciding that she wanted to sit next to Yuri, she began to try and jump her way up and onto the bench. Quickly, before Yuri could intercept her, Otabek lifted her onto the cushion, and, immediately, she snuggled into Yuri’s side, wrapping her arms around him as best as she could with his (not so) newfound roundness.

“Katya?” Yuri asked, wrapping his arms around her and exchanging a concerned glance with Otabek. “What’s wrong? Don’t you want to explore the playhouse?” It wasn’t like there was much to explore, but that had never stopped her in the past-- once she’d even found a dime and Yuri had let her ‘buy’ (he’d paid but had slipped the dime into the tip jar) a juicebox with it from the store they went grocery shopping in, after her checkup.

The little girl shook her head, cuddling closer to Yuri and, oh, okay, that was what was happening. A month or so ago when Yuri had gotten home from the dance studio, exhausted by the terrors that _were_ his Junior Ballet class (different kids, same difficulty-to-handle level-- though Ekaterina’s little sister was in his class, which made up for it, some) something similar had happened and Yuri had made the mistake of citing the (quite true) excuse for not playing with Katya that his feet hurt. Katya being the sensitive child she was, had been extremely upset at the notion that Yuri was in pain, and had reacted as she currently was. 

Thinking of deterring Katya’s train of thought, Yuri pulled her into a tight hug before suggesting, “Do you want to read, instead?” Katya nodded and, with a bit of persuasion, left Yuri’s side and went with Otabek to pick out a picture book from the rack of children’s literature next to the playhouse. After a minute of a highly selective, highly specific searching process, Katya and Otabek (to whom the task of carrying the book had been delegated) returned, and, with some assistance, Katya was once again nestled against Yuri’s side, Otabek on her other, and they began to read.

As he flipped the book open, Yuri smiled at the look of deep concentration on his daughter’s face; she was so very like Otabek, he thought, and she’d been able to sit and be read to for hours on end, ever since 18 months. It was a glory of Yuri’s and he lost no time in bragging to the other parents in Katya’s preschool about this skill-- Otabek, as well, though in a slightly more subdued manner. 

That trademark reservation of his died, though, Yuri thought, grinning as he watched Otabek poke Katya in the belly at a funny part of the story and their shared giggles, whenever he was around his family. The baby kicked at that moment, and Yuri laughed, loving that their second child was so eager to join the chaos. After a moment or two, everyone settled down, again, and, Otabek’s arm stretching around his shoulders, Katya nestled between them, the baby bouncing on his liver, Yuri was content to stay like this forever.

Not every day was a good day. Some days, Yuri struggled to get up in the morning, to function so much as to pour cereal in a bowl for Katya. Some days, Yuri walked in on Otabek staring at a wall, his face blank, eyes empty. Some days, they just held each other, Katya snuggled up between them, and they both had a hard time following their daily routine.

_Most_ days, though, Yuri was endlessly overwhelmed by his hurricane of a daughter, loving every minute of it. _Most_ days, he and Otabek were woken by the pitter patter of small (or smaller, in Yuri’s case) feet and the consequential jostling as those tiny feet left the ground and met the duvet. Most days, (Sundays, especially) _Otabek_ was startled awake by _two_ sets of feet crashing into the mattress, shrieking with laughter and poking cold toes under the covers with screeching choruses ‘there are waffles in the kitchen!’ and, less articulately, ‘get _up!_ Wake up!’.

Life wasn’t a fairytale, and it was rarely ever easy, but, as Katya giggled against him and Otabek’s deep voice rumbled in an unnaturally high-pitched character dialect, Yuri knew that today was a good day, and, more importantly, that there were many more to come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for coming with me on this wonderful, beautiful journey. I'll see you soon. ♥

**Author's Note:**

> It gets better -- I swear.  
> ANYWHO, this is my first multi-chapter fic on AO3 and one of the most labor-intensive fics I've written so far. This story is four chapters prewritten, and about halfway done. Each chapter will be at least 4,000 words (no more than 6,000) and I plan on updating biweekly. My adopted posting day will be Friday but if something happens (ie the internet goes out and I cannot post) I will have the chapter posted by Monday at the latest.  
> This posting schedule might slow down as I finish my prewritten chapters, possibly lengthening to three, maybe four, weeks, but please know that under no circumstances will this story be abandoned. While I don't exactly have credit for finishing fics here on AO3, I have several 30+ chapter fics finished on Wattpad (same handle if you want to follow!) and I implore you to believe that all of my fics will be finished.
> 
> **TL;DR -- My posting days are biweekly Fridays and 4 four chapters (about half) of this story is prewritten. Updates will be 4,000 words and my updates may take a bit longer when I run out of prewritten material, possibly lengthening to 3-4 weeks.**
> 
>   
> As always, comments and kudos are greatly appreciated! ♥  
> Let me know what you think!
> 
> My Twitter account: https://twitter.com/SophieParrish13


End file.
